


Atlantis Café - The Beginning

by Soledad



Series: Atlantis Café [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Stargate Atlantis, Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Ianto Conquers Atlantis, M/M, hard choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 91,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the deaths of Toshiko and Owen, Ianto is sent to Atlantis by PM Harriet Jones, to serve British interests as Richard Woolsey’s aide. Here he meets the person who changes his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I do know that Harriet Jones no longer is the Prime Minister after the second series of Torchwood; in fact, if I’m not mistaken, she isn’t even alive anymore. But I needed the PM to be her, specifically, for a really bad joke to work, so I decided to mess up the timeline a bit more.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**PART 01 – THE CALL**

Getting a personal call from the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom was _not_ something Ianto Jones would have expected. Ever. In the rare cases the government felt forced to give up its feigned ignorance about Torchwood, the Prime Minister _always_ called Jack. That was the way things were done. When the government needed to acknowledge the existence of Torchwood, the call went to the leader of the organization.

Back in the olden days, when Torchwood had still had several branches and almost nine hundred employees, that person had been Yvonne Hartmann, he director of Torchwood One. Now, with Torchwood One destroyed, and Torchwood Four lost, and less than ten staff still alive, the person to contact would have been, by all rights and purposes, Captain Jack Harkness.

And yet, this time Prime Minister Harriet Jones – or, to be more accurate, her secretary – was asking for Ianto personally. What was more, she asked him for a personal meeting. In London. Preferably yesterday. Or the day before.

In the face of a request coming from such a high place, what was a lowly Torchwood employee to do? Ianto promised to book the next flight to London, of course. To his even greater surprise, that offer got rejected.

“There’s no need, Mr. Jones,” the nameless secretary said. “Agent Bates from the I.O.A. will pick you up at Roald Dahl Plass within two hours and take you to an airport, from where you and a few other selected people will be flown to London by a private jet. This will be just a short visit, so you won’t need to pack too much.”

With that, the secretary hung up, leaving Ianto thoroughly confused.

The rest of the team – those who had survived the recent visit of Jack’s long-lost brother, that is – was every bit as surprised as Ianto himself. Actually, to be honest, Jack was more than a tad miffed by the fact that he hadn’t been informed – or even contacted in any way – first.

“Well, if that ain’t wonderful!” he scowled. “Instead of stocking up the team, even those I still have are called away.”

Gwen’s ears perked up in interest. “You want to hire new team members? Where would you take them? Have you got some candidates already?”

Jack nodded. “I was thinking of Martha Jones. She’s _the_ ultimate expert on alien life, she could fill Owen’s place better than anyone else. Besides, she’s got previous experience, and I know I can trust her.”

Gwen made an unhappy face, remembering the regal-looking black woman who had briefly worked with them in the previous year. She didn’t like competition, and Dr. Martha Jones, beautiful, competent and brave, not to mention a close confidant of Jack’s due to their shared adventures with the mysterious Doctor, had made her realize how woefully unqualified she still was, compared with everyone else in Torchwood. Even with Ianto, whom she hadn’t considered as serious competition for quite a while… only to be proved wrong.

Ianto, on the other hand, would have welcomed to work with Dr. Jones again, despite the dull pain the knowledge that she’d shared the year all the others had missed with Jack. She was witty, funny and highly competent – not to mention clearly uninterested in Jack, which was a relief.

“She would be a great asset to the team, assuming you can persuade her to join Torchwood permanently,” he said. “Any other people you’d consider?”

Jack nodded again. “Mickey Smith,” he said. “He used to travel with the Doctor for a while, but returned to London. Unfortunately, he’s stuck in the same parallel universe the Cybermen have come from and is no longer available for us. I quite liked him, to be honest..”

Ianto gave him an amused look. “It isn’t without a certain irony that you’re trying to gather former companions of the Doctor, to stock up the very organization that was originally founded to catch him,” he commented.

“That’s the beauty in the idea,” Jack grinned. “But really, Mickey is a Torchwood veteran. Right before the Battle of Canary Wharf, he’d managed to infiltrate the London branch, under a different name – I think he called himself Samuel, back then.”

Ianto looked at him in surprise… perhaps a little hurt. “I thought you’ve severed all ties with Torchwood One; that you didn’t hire anyone who used to work for them.”

“That’s different,” Jack replied. “Mickey was never an enemy of the Doctor’s.”

Gwen looked at them stupidly, which wasn’t really surprising, considering the fact that she’d never bothered to make herself familiar with the history of Torchwood. She always thought that Jack’s short introduction would be enough.

“What are the two of you talking about?” she demanded.

Ianto rolled his eyes. “You should, at the very least, read the Torchwood Foundation’s Charter; the Doctor was written into it as an enemy of the Crown, back in 1897,” he explained. “Queen Victoria apparently decided that the Doctor was dangerous, and declared that if he ever returned, Torchwood would be waiting,” he gave Jack a darkly amused look. “I’m sure she didn’t quite mean it the way you did.”

“Well I’ve rebuilt Torchwood in the Doctor’s honour,” Jack replied with a shrug, “and with a different stance. I never liked their aggressive policy towards extraterrestrial life.”

“Considering where you come from, it’s not really surprising,” Ianto returned dryly. “But the way Torchwood is now doesn’t really match the Queen’s original intention, you have to admit it.”

“I do” Jack shrugged again. “However, we no longer work under the authority of Headquarters in London.”

“That would be a bit hard, wouldn’t it, as the Queen has ordered the closing of Torchwood One in 2006,” Ianto said. “We’re an independent organization now, and you’re the _de facto_ leader of what’s still there of Torchwood. Archie in Glasgow doesn’t really count, and we both know it.”

Gwen, completely unfamiliar with the long and complicated history of Torchwood, had been listening to their argument the way one would watch a tennis match: looking from Jack to Ianto and back all the time. It almost seemed to her as if they were talking in a foreign language.

“How comes you know so much about these things?” she asked Ianto in surprise.

Ianto shot her an unfriendly look. “I used to be a junior researcher at Torchwood One, under the wings of Rupert Howart, who used to be the head of the Archives. I was supposed to become an archivist and a computer expert like Tosh. I didn’t do all that bad at university, so they wanted me to attend special courses after I graduated,” he shrugged. “It never came to that.”

“Why not?” Gwen asked. “What happened?”

“The Battle of Canary Wharf happened,” Ianto replied grimly. “A small advance force of Cybermen from an alternate universe crossed the spatial breach above Torchwood Tower, killing or subverting – or ‘upgrading’ – seven hundred and ninety-six members of staff. That was the end of Torchwood One. Only twenty-seven of the eight hundred and twenty-three staff members survived. Miraculously – or unfortunately, depending on your point of view – I was one of them. And so was Lisa... or so I believed for a while.”

“In the wake of that battle, Her Majesty ordered the immediate closure of the London branch,” Jack added. “The few survivors, mostly inexperienced junior members like Ianto himself, couldn’t have operated the place on their own – even if they’d want to return there.”

“I don’t think any of us would,” Ianto said quietly.

“But if you were an ongoing scientist, how did you end up as the janitor here?” Gwen asked in her usual tactless manner.

Jack flinched. His own initial reluctance to give Ianto a job, just because the young man had been a Torchwood One employee, was something he did not like to remember. How he had made Ianto beg and refused his request several times. That it had taken a pterodactyl – and involuntary full-body contact – to actually hire Ianto. That in the end he had only hired the young man to have easier access to him eventually.

Ianto gave Gwen one of those blank looks that sometimes made Jack wonder whether the young man really didn’t care about the casual insults from the side of his team-mates or was secretly planning his revenge.

“I don’t expect _you_ to understand,” he replied, “but I did it for Lisa. This was the only way to keep her alive, the only hope to find a method to reverse her partial conversion. I took the job because this was the only one Jack would offer me.”

That seemed to surprise Gwen. “But if you used to be a researcher, didn’t that mean that you already had the necessary qualifications?”

“Jack doesn’t have a high opinion about Torchwood One,” Ianto replied simply. “That’s why he severed ties with the headquarters ten years ago, when he became head of the Cardiff branch.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully well-informed about past events,” he said. “How have you figured out _that_?”

“I was well-trained as a researcher by Dr. Howart,” Ianto answered. “Torchwood London never recruited staff off the streets.”

The addition _like you did with Gwen_ hung unspoken between them for a long moment.

“Do you think the Prime Minister wants to speak you because they’re planning to re-open Torchwood One?” Gwen, who – as usual – didn’t realize the tension between the two men, asked curiously.

Ianto closed his eyes, fighting the nausea that still threatened to overwhelm him whenever the events of the Battle of Canary Wharf were discussed in any length. He shook his head.

“I seriously doubt it,” he said. “Firstly, the spatial breach above London has been sealed, so there’s no actual reason to return there. Secondly, as I already said, I don’t believe anyone would _wish_ to work there again. I know _I wouldn’t_ want to return, and I can’t imagine that any of the other survivors would.”

“Neither can I,” Jack agreed, getting over his mild irritation with Ianto’s attitude, because really, what was the boy’s problem? “There’s another possibility, though: perhaps the Queen attempts to shout down Torchwood entirely, since _we’ve_ lost half of our staff, too.”

“She can’t do that… can she?” Gwen asked in shock. “We do important work here, don’t we?”

“Sure we do,” Ianto replied. “Torchwood Three was specifically founded as a smaller branch of the original Institute to monitor and exploit the Rift. It’s all in the history files.”

Again, the unspoken suggestion _you should do your homework_ hung between them, but Gwen, as usual, managed _not_ to get it. She really wasn’t good at subtlety.

“Nonetheless, the Queen _can_ shut us down,” Jack said grimly. “In fact, she’s the only one who can. Torchwood has only ever answered to the Crown, since its foundation. If Her Majesty decides that the work we do isn’t worth the considerable founds pumped into Torchwood each year, she can shut us down permanently,” he looked at Ianto. “So be careful what you tell the Prime Minister. This meeting might be the first step in _that_ direction.”

Ianto’s face stiffened to an unreadable mask. “I shall endeavour to do my best to protect Torchwood’s interests, sir.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Now he’s calling me _sir_ again. I still do have a name, you know.”

“And I have some packing to do,” Ianto replied. “May I have the next two hours off, sir?”

“You’re determined to make things difficult for me today, aren’t you?” Jack asked, his irritation visible now. “All right, but be here on time. I don’t want to discuss your absence with that I.O.A. agent – whatever I.O.A. might be.”

“We should have Tosh search the…” Gwen bit off the end of the sentence. For a moment, she’d almost forgotten that Toshiko was dead.

Jack’s face froze in grim lines for a moment. Then he shook his head, as if trying to shake off the grief.

“Go,” he said to Ianto. “You don’t have much time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Getting home and packing his suitcase didn’t take long. Ianto had lived in a cramped little flat near the Torchwood building ever since taken into the Cardiff branch by Jack a couple of years ago. At first he couldn’t afford anything better, as secretly paying the not exactly small part of electricity bills caused by the machines that had kept Lisa alive used to swallow his last penny. He’d been fortunate that he was the one to deal with the bills to begin with, or else he’d have been found out a lot earlier.

After Lisa had gone, he could have moved into a bigger, nicer apartment, but he saw no reason to do so. He practically lived in the Hub – the only person spending more time there was Jack – and when he finally could drag himself home, all he wanted was a shower and a bed. He had those in his old flat already… and the way to work was blissfully short. He could even walk in within twenty minutes if he had to.

Right now, he took the car, of course, as it would have been unwise to make the mysterious Agent Bates wait. He quickly showered, selected his most conservative suit with a grey shirt, packed another set to change, should it be necessary, some underwear, pyjamas, toiletries and a book he’d wanted to read for quite some time. He aired the flat, then locked it and got back to Roald Dahl Plass just in time to pick up his laptop, just in case.

Exactly two hours after the call from the Prime Minister’s office, a nondescript dark car turned into the parking lot of the tourist office, and a handsome black man in his late thirties get out of it. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a blue shirt, but there was something in his stance that gave the impression that he’d be more comfortable wearing a uniform. A lot more.

He must have gotten detailed instructions, because he marched directly into the tourist office, without knocking first. He took in the three people in the office – both Jack and Gwen had wanted to see the man who would take Ianto away to his unusual appointment – and seemed to recognize Ianto at once.

“Mr. Jones?” he asked with an unmistakable American accent. Ianto nodded, and the man extended a hand. “Special Agent Michael Eugene Bates, sir. I was sent to pick you up and take you to the airport. The others are already waiting.”

He had a wide, white smile, every bit as big as Jack’s or even bigger. It contrasted nicely with his dark skin and made him look younger than he probably was, at least according to his short-cropped, greying hair. There was something haunted in his eyes, though, that made one think that he’d probably greyed prenaturally – perhaps due to some traumatic event he had to go through.

Ianto had other problems at the moment than the man’s possible past, though. “What others?” he asked, feeling suddenly nervous.

Agent Bates grinned at him. “You didn’t think we’d commission a private jet just to get your lone self to the Prime Minister, did you? We’ll have quite the illustrious company, you’ll see. Now, are you ready to go? You’re the only one still missing.”

His mannerism, his economic, powerful movements practically screamed military, and Jack, who’d been listening to the conversation quietly, started to become nervous, too. Especially when at the second, more thorough sight he discovered three tiny pieces of dark purple badge neatly pinned to the breast of his jacket: those were the miniaturized badges of the Purple Heart military award. The man obviously wasn’t just American military – even if possibly retired by now – he was a war hero, too, and proud of it, if he kept wearing the badges on his civvies… and was allowed to do so. Three Purple Hearts meant having been wounded three times in enemy territory, in the defence of the United States. What was this guy doing with the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom? And, more importantly, what was he doing with Ianto?

Shutting out Gwen’s inane babbling with practiced ease – he liked the girl, but sometimes she could be every bit as nerve-wrecking as the Doctor’s precious Rose, _without_ the excuse of being barely eighteen; seriously, a woman of her age, and a married one at that, should be able to show at least _partially_ mature behaviour – Jack strode to the newcomer and extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Agent Bates. I’m Captain Jack Harkness, Mr. Jones’ boss.”

The man gave Jack’s greatcoat a fleeting glance while they shook hands. “You seem to be a bit behind the current dress code, Captain,” he replied with a faint smile. “About half a century, give or take a decade or too.”

“I’m a bit old-fashioned,” Jack admitted, “and no longer in active duty anyway. Just like you, I suppose. You were… what? Navy? Air Force?”

Bates shook his head. “Nothing so fancy, sir. Marine Corps, actually – your simple, honest, down-to-dirt grunt who sprang out of choppers and shot whom his COs pointed out as the enemy.”

“But no longer, right?” Jack asked.

“No,” Bates admitted. “A couple of years ago the Marine Corps gave me an honourable discharge due to my injuries, as I wasn’t fully fit for armed duty any longer. Afterwards, the I.O.A. contacted me. They were starting up a new field division dealing specifically with operational threats on Earth, and it seemed like a good fit.”

“I see,” Jack said, although, as much as he hated to admit, the explanation didn’t explain a thing for him. “I’m afraid I never heard about an organization named I.O.A. before, though.”

“You’re not _supposed_ to,” Bates replied with a grim smile. “It’s confidential information.”

“You’d be surprised how much of _that_ kind of stuff is known to us,” Jack said, a little arrogantly.

Bates shrugged. “Good luck with trying to figure out more, sir,” he replied. “Look, I know who you are; what Torchwood is. I’ve been debriefed thoroughly before sent here. And since you are who you are, I’ll tell you this much: I.O.A. means International Oversight Agency. It’s an organization composing of ranking politicians from the USA, Great Britain, France and China, whose only purpose is to, well, oversee certain top secret projects that are based in the USA. We, mere agents, are just the foot soldiers.”

“What kind of projects?” Jack asked quietly.

Bates shrugged again, this time apologetically. “I’m sorry, Captain; I’m not authorized to tell you about it.”

“But you know what it is, don’t you?” It was not a question. Despite being a ‘mere agent’, Bates obviously was very well-informed.

Bates nodded. “I used to work for the project for several years… until my discharge.”

“And that’s where you got your Purple Hearts,” Jack said. Again, it was not a question.

“Well, the last one, yeah,” Bates replied. “The other two are from my tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“And the Prime Minister wants to hire Ianto for that same project?” Jack asked in worry. He hated it when Ianto got in dangerous situations – even if he was there to protect him.

Bates shook his head. “I’m not authorized to speak about _that_ , either. I’m truly sorry, sir.”

Jack nodded, not happy with the answer but understanding it. “I’m gonna to the airport with you,” he said.

“As you wish, Captain,” Bates replied with a shrug. “But that’s about as far as I can allow you to come.”

“I know,” Jack sighed. “It’s better than nothing, though.”

“I’m coming, too,” Gwen declared.

Jack rolled his eyes, registering from the corner of his eyes how Ianto’s face was crumpling in barely-hidden disappointment. They’d had virtually no chance to be alone for days, and now this…

“Gwen, it’s not necessary…” he began, but she interrupted him, doggedly following her own ideas as always.

“I know. But I want to.”

Bates’ dark, observant eyes flicked from Ianto’s miserable face to Gwen’s mulish one… and he seemed to get at least the gist of the not-so-subtle power struggle within their little triangle. He also seemed to have a clear idea whom to side with – and that wasn’t Gwen.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t allow that,” he said. “I’ll let the captain come with us, since he’s the head of your organization and thus has a right to know where I’m taking one of his men, but that’s about as far as I’m willing to go.”

“I’m his second-in-command!” Gwen protested, surprising everyone – _including_ Jack – with that declaration. While she’d indeed acted as if she’d been Jack’s deputy for moths, she’d never been officially assigned as such.

“And I don’t care,” Bates returned in a less than friendly manner, seeing how Ianto’s face was losing all colour within seconds. “You seem to me like someone with a serious lack of proper discipline, and I won’t let you anywhere near potentially sensitive information. Good day, missy.”

While Gwen was still gaping in outrage, unable to give any coherent answer, Bates grabbed Ianto’s suitcase and stuffed it into the car.

“Please move it, Mr. Jones,” he said in a crisp military manner. “The plane does have a schedule, you know. Captain, if you want to come with us, take a seat. We have to go.”

Jack didn’t let him repeat the invitation. I.O.A. agent or not, the man had something in him that eerily reminded him of a drill sergeant.

“Gwen, keep an eye on things here,” he said over his shoulder while climbing into the car, taking the back seat.

Ianto chose the passenger’s seat, as if he wanted to put some distance between the two of them. Jack didn’t really mind it, because from that angle he had an excellent view of Ianto’s profile: the cute nose, the killer cheekbones, the soft lips, the sideburns, that slight dimple on the chin… oh, yes, it was a _very_ nice view indeed!

Ignoring the still gaping Gwen, Bates took the driver’s seat, murmuring something unintelligible about stupid British cars and stupid British traffic rules; then he slammed onto the gas and sped away. From the corner of his eyes, Jack could see Gwen, red-faced with anger, glaring after them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He wasn’t particularly surprised to see that the airport at which they finally arrived was a private one. Somehow it was to be expected that private jets on sensitive missions would start from such place. It was only a small one, with a battered two-storey building that served every possible function that might be necessary.

A single jet was parting behind the building on the small runway. It seemed to be an old-fashioned plane, but Jack’s experienced eyes found signs that revealed that the looks were deliberately misleading and the jet a modern and probably experimental design. A small one, for twelve passengers, tops. It wore American markings: the signs of the US Air Force.

The pilot, a straw-blond Air Force officer with the rank insignia of a captain and very pale, almost water-blue eyes in his tanned, ruggedly handsome face, greeted Bates with the familiarity of an old friend, making Jack wonder whether they had served together earlier and where _that_ might have happened.

“It’s good to see you back in the action, Gene,” he said. “It’s always something of a relief to see a familiar face. So very few of us from the first days are still around.”

“Way too few,” Bates agreed, shaking hands with him. “Life seems to mean it good with you, sir.”

“It does, mostly,” the pilot allowed; then he grinned, showing white, even teeth. “You don’t have to call me _sir_ anymore, you know.”

Bates laughed, that haunted look leaving his eyes for a moment.

“I know that, Captain, but old habits are hard to break,” he said; then he looked at Ianto. “Mr. Jones, this is your chauffeur, Captain Charlie Miller. He can fly just about _everything_ ; from the Space Shuttle down to Second World War relics. You’ll be in good hands.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones,” the pilot shook hands with Ianto, then he glanced at Bates. “Gene, would you mind to get the rest of the passengers? They’d been waiting for hours by now, and are getting a little… frisky.”

“Sure, why not?” Bates took Ianto’s suitcase from the car and handed it to him. “You can store your gear in the meantime, Mr. Jones.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Ianto asked.

Bates shook his head. “Not this time; not before things become serious anyway.” With that mysterious comment, he walked away in the direction of the waiting room, which, logically was located on the ground floor of the all-purpose-building behind them.

“He’s in charge of picking up people here in Cardiff,” the pilot – Captain Miller – explained, while showing Ianto where to store his luggage. “When things here are finished, we’re all gonna flow back to the States together… with Minnie here,” he added, patting the outer hull of the jet lovingly.

Jack looked at him in amusement. “You call your plane _Minnie_?”

“She’s not mine, unfortunately; I wish she were, but I couldn’t offer her anyway,” Miller answered. “But yeah, I do call her Minnie – after my grandmother, who was also a tough little lady. Seemingly plain but made of steel.”

“But considerably older than this design, I suppose,” Jack said, amused.

Miller nodded. “Of course. She’s a brand new one, used for diplomatic purposes only.”

“And for military ones, I assume,” Jack commented, but Miller shook his head.

“Nah, she’s been specifically designed to transport diplomatic personnel and other WIPs,” he said. “She’s not armed at all. In case of highly endangered passengers, she gets a military escort, of course, but otherwise…” he shrugged. “She’s small, she’s sleek and fast and she’s a delight to fly. I’m not complaining.”

“How comes she’s transporting visitors for the Prime Minister, though?” Jack asked. “As far as I can tell, both you and the jet belong to the Air Force... and not to the Royal one.”

“It’s been a loan,” Miller explained. “I’ve flown a few IOA representatives over from the States and will have to get them back, eventually. In the meantime, they agreed to loan me and Minnie to your Prime Minister, and I really don’t mind. I got to see London and Glasgow and Cardiff – all places I’ve never been before. Hell, I’ve ever been on a trip to Stonehenge, and _that_ is something I’d wanted since the age of ten.”

“I thought you already wanted to become a pilot at the age of ten,” Jack teased. “Or a fire-fighter. Most American boys do.”

Ianto didn’t hear the pilot’s answer. His mood was darkening again. He’d enjoyed greatly Agent Bates having put Gwen in her place – something _Jack_ should have done a long time ago but could never quite manage, for some reason – but watching Jack flirt shamelessly with the pilot (who, in all likelihood, didn’t even realize that he was made a pass at) killed his little satisfaction again.

As much as he knew that this wasn’t personal, that it was simply something that Jack _did_ , it wasn’t easy for him to watch. He considered their relationship as serious and committed – at least from _his_ end of the connection – and he knew that, in his own way, Jack _was_ faithful. He just flirted with everything on two legs; Ianto was relatively certain that it was all there was. But the knowledge that one day Jack simply would _have_ to move on and leave him behind wasn’t easy to bear. And such flirtatious moments brought back that knowledge with brutal force.

And then there was Gwen. Gwen-bloody-Cooper, supposedly happily married to a nice, decent bloke who put up with all her shit with the patience of a saint. Ianto liked Rhys; liked him a lot. It was also for Rhys’ sake that Gwen’s possessive attitude towards Jack bothered him so much.

She seemed to have some kind of delusion about being Jack’s soul-mate; the only person who’d truly understand Jack. She apparently believed that Jack had romantic feelings for her and only refrained from acting on those feelings because she was married. As if what Jack and Ianto had would be nothing but recreational activity for the object of her obsession.

The truly sad thing was that – in a manner – she was almost right. For Jack, every relationship with anyone on this planet, from any particular time, was a fleeting one. It couldn’t be anything else. People around him, even his lovers, grew old and died. Like Estelle had. Like Ianto would. Like _he_ would _not_.

It was that simple. It was what gave their happiest, most intense moments a bittersweet tingle. There was no way around it, and sometimes it broke Ianto’s heart, but he’d come to accept it. Mostly.

On the other hand, within these limitations, Jack _was_ faithful to his part-time lovers. He didn’t cheat on them, and if Gwen chose not to see that, it was her problem. Or so Ianto hoped. He _did_ trust Jack, they’d gone through too much not to do so. But he also knew how determined Gwen could be to get what she wanted. And she did want Jack very much. That had been obvious since the first day she’d set foot into Torchwood.

Sometimes Ianto wasn’t sure whether he should feel sorry for Rhys… or for himself.

Someone touched his arm, and a delighted female voice shook him out of his brooding mood. “Ianto Jones! Now that’s a surprise! I didn’t know you were invited to this little excursion, too.”

Slender but deceivingly strong arms wrapped themselves around him, the warm body of a woman pressed against his in all the right places – he was committed to Jack now, granted, but that didn’t mean he’d turned to wood for any other stimuli – and a familiar scent filled his nostrils, sweet and spicy and uniquely…

“Martha!” he replied happily, hugging back the dark-skinned beauty with all his might. He didn’t need to hold back; Dr. Jones only _looked_ fragile. “It’s good to see you again. What are you doing here?”

Martha kissed him on the cheek and laughed. “Same thing as you, I assume. Prime Minister Jones has asked me for a personal meeting, and who am I to say _no_?”

Jack looked from Martha to Ianto and back in suspicion. “Is this some great conspiracy of Joneses to take over the world?” he asked, obviously still royally pissed that he’d not been informed in advance.

Ianto gave him a bland smile. “If it is, I haven’t been sent the bulletin yet, sir,” he replied.

Martha laughed and kissed Jack on the face, too. “It’s good to see you again, Jack. I wish it were under different circumstances, but…” They both shrugged. Survivors of the end of the world rarely had the chance to choose their working environment.

“Do you know what this is all about?” Jack asked. “Is U.N.I.T involved somehow? What do they possibly want from Ianto?”

“I’m not sure,” Martha admitted. “I do have an idea, but… Look, I’ll tell you when it’s been confirmed. Or Ianto will. Assuming we’re allowed to do so.”

Jack nodded. He knew how these things worked. As the _de facto_ leader of Torchwood, he was privy to more top secret intel than any other man on the planet, but not even he was automatically allowed to know _everything_. And as much as he hated not to know in what he was sending Ianto, there was preciously little he could do about.

“Take care,” he said, escorting Martha to the plane. Then he turned Ianto and kissed him unhurriedly, not caring about the audience. “You too. I want you back in the Hub as soon as possible.”

Ianto licked his lips, as if enjoying the aftertaste of their very public, very passionate kiss. 

“I shall endeavour to pick up my duties at the earliest possible time, sir,” he replied, and boarded the plane.

Jack watched the takeoff of the jet with an unexplainably flat feeling in his gut. He didn’t know why, but this whole affair filled him with unease.


	2. A Conspiracy of Joneses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Bates and Miller, Mr. Chapman is a genuine “Stargate” character.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto was relieved that he could share the jet with Martha (aside from half a dozen other people whom he did not know and who therefore didn’t count). This was the first time that he returned to London since the destruction of Torchwood One, and the memories were _not_ pleasant. Not to mention the other, more recent losses.

“I heard about Owen and Toshiko,” Martha said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I,” Ianto replied with a shrug, “but that’s Torchwood for you. I’d be lying if I said that I’d shed as much as a single tear after Owen – he was a jerk who delighted in making my life a complete misery – but Tosh… Tosh deserved better. She was… she was something _special_ , you know, and nobody seemed to realize that.”

“Jack did,” Martha said. “He used to talk about you – _all_ of you – during the Year That Never Was,” she gave Ianto a quick glance. “You know where he was during that time and what he was doing, don’t you?”

Ianto nodded. “He told me about it. Not everything, I presume, just the bare bones of it, but yeah… He said he wanted me to understand.”

“And do you?” Martha asked. “Understand, I mean?”

“I think I do,” Ianto answered slowly. “He’d been waiting for the Doctor’s return for over a century, but when it finally happened… it wasn’t the same thing anymore. It wasn’t the same Doctor, was it?”

“No,” Martha said quietly. “With him, regeneration results in a different shape… _and_ in a different personality, I think. The memories remain, the knowledge remains, but everything else changes.” She shrugged. “That’s the way it is with him.”

“While Jack bounces back from death virtually unchanged,” Ianto finished. “It’s an eerie thing. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

Martha grinned. “Yeah… it freaked the Doctor out, big deal, when he realized that Jack was immortal now.”

“Good,” Ianto said darkly. “They deserve each other.”

Martha’s grin softened to an understanding smile. “He _has_ come back for you, hasn’t he?” she reminded the young man.

“For us all, as he was eager to add,” Ianto corrected bitterly.

Martha nodded. “In a way, that was true. You were his _team_. For all his being a terrible flirt, Jack can be surprisingly loyal to those he considers _his_. But I don’t think he sees the others the same way he sees you.”

“Really?” Ianto raised an ironic eyebrow. “How _does_ the great Captain Harkness see me, then?”

“Hmmm… it’s hard to find a good twenty-first century analogy,” Martha thought about it for a moment. “You share a very special closeness that is rarely found in modern times. Like a knight and his squire in the Middle Ages. You’re his confidant, the one who sees that things are done to his liking; the one he can _trust_ …”

“The one who makes him coffee and warms his bed; and between duties stays in the shadows and is invisible,” Ianto added bitterly.

Martha looked at him in surprise. “What happened between the two of you? Last time I visited Torchwood everything seemed all right. You seemed _happy_.”

“I was… I _am_ , I suppose,” Ianto rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “It’s just so damn _hard_ to deal with who he is – with _what_ he is – sometimes. To know that what we have is just a blink of an eye for him. For me, it’s my entire _life_ , you understand…”

“Oh, I do,” she said softly. “I understand more than you can possibly imagine.”

He gave her a funny look. “The Doctor?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ve fallen for him hard; and he didn’t even see it.”

“Was that the reason why you left him?” Ianto asked.

Martha shrugged. “Sure. I didn’t want to waste my life pining after someone who wasn’t even interested.”

“Do you miss him?” Ianto inquired.

Martha laughed. “That’s what Jack asked me when I came to work with your lot last time,” she said, evading the question.

Ianto didn’t give up so easily. “Do you miss him?” he insisted.

After a moment of consideration, Martha shook her head.

“There was a time when I missed him a lot,” she admitted, “but not any longer. I’ve found work, purpose… even a boyfriend on Earth. I no longer want to travel through time.”

“Jack wants to hire you for Torchwood Three,” Ianto told her, suddenly grinning. “He thinks you’d be a good replacement for Owen.”

“God beware!” Martha laughed. “Why on Earth would I wish to work in a depressing underground bunker in Cardiff when I can have my own perfectly nice, sunny lab at UNIT?”

“Yeah, but does your current boss have a jawline nearly as perfect as Jack’s?” Ianto teased.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please! We both know I’d be every bit as overqualified for Owen’s job as you are for your current one. Without any personal interest, you wouldn’t be working at Torchwood Three, either.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Ianto lied.

Martha looked at him pointedly. “Really? You forget that I’m working for UNIT now. That means I have access to data I previously hadn’t, I know that _junior researcher_ doesn’t really tell much about what you really used to do at Torchwood London. You weren’t just learning the ropes from Rupert Howart; you were the personal assistant of Yvonne Hartmann herself. That’s how you learned how to run the background work at Torchwood. You’ve been more in charge of everything in the Hub than even Jack could begin to imagine. Yeah, he’s the one to give the orders, but without you, they’d have drowned in chaos.”

“They’d managed somehow before me, too,” Ianto said mildly.

“ _Somehow_ being the key word for it,” Martha replied. “It was far from smooth sailing, even at the times when Torchwood Three was nothing more than a little monitoring station above the Rift. Suzie had the most organized mind of all, but even Toshiko and she between them couldn’t achieve a shard of your efficiency. And since the destruction of the London headquarters, all Torchwood administration has basically been _your_ job.”

“Then it’s probably a mistake to leave Jack alone with the Queen of Chaos, now that not even Tosh is there any longer to iron out things,” Ianto tried to joke… and failed.

“I cannot know what Her Majesty intends to do with Torchwood Three, of course” Martha said, “but one thing is certain: it either has to be closed down, or completely rebuilt personnel-wise. Jack can’t run it all on his own… or with such a skeleton crew as in the recent years. It will take time – _if_ he’s given the chance at all.”

“I’ll do my best to help him as always,” Ianto sighed.

Martha shook her head. “ _You_ might not be given that chance, though. You might be needed somewhere else.”

Ianto gave her a sharp look. “You know what this invitation is all about, don’t you?” he asked.

Martha nodded. “I’ve got a clue, at least,” she admitted. “As you perhaps know, a few weeks ago I’ve been promoted to the new US division of UNIT…” Ianto shook his head, and she shrugged. “Well, I have. And that’s where the I.O.A. first contacted me.”

“I assume you mean the same organization Agent Bates works for?” It wasn’t really a question, but Ianto preferred to keep his facts straight. “He seems to be a very capable man.”

”The very same,” Martha admitted. “And yeah, Mr. Bates is a real asset for them. He was discharged as a Chief Master Sergeant of the United States Marine Corps. He’s been given so many medals that he needs to lean on a walking stick on veteran reunions or else he’d keel over from the sheer weight of all that chest candy. So yeah, he _is_ capable of dealing with just about everything. The majority of the I.O.A. consist of bureaucrats, though, so they’ve been lucky he was available to get hired.”

There was a certain… _interested_ gleam in her eyes, which made Ianto grin. “So, the two of you…”

“God, no!” Martha laughed. “I’m with Tom Milligan, a fellow doctor, and quite happy with him, thank you very much! But a nice view is a nice view, and I promised to be faithful, not to go _blind_ , if you understand what I mean.”

Ianto pulled a sour face. “I’m with Jack, remember? The first thing you learn is how to make _that_ distinction when you’re involved with him.”

“I can imagine,” Martha grinned; then she turned serious again. “He _has_ changed quite a bit, though. Calmed down a little. Settled, to a certain extent. You’re a positive influence on him, it seems.”

Ianto shrugged. “He _tries_. He’s… different now. Has been since he returned to us. Now he seems to be genuinely _caring_ … but in the end, that would only make things harder for him. Losing Suzie had hit him hard enough, but losing Tosh… it’s nearly destroyed him. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m _really_ that good for him.”

“Have you ever wondered if _he_ ’s really good for _you_?” Martha asked quietly. “Whether it is _healthy_ to focus on him and his needs with such intensity that you completely forget to live in the process? You used to know how to live while with Torchwood London.”

Ianto frowned. “How would you know that?”

“Remember Adeola? Adeola Oshodi?” Martha asked.

Ianto nodded. Of course he remembered the beautiful, exotic-looking young scientist of Torchwood One, Lisa’s closest friend. They’d gone out together a few times, Lisa and him, with Adeola and her boyfriend, Gareth; had fun. When Torchwood One had been infiltrated, Adeola and Gareth had been given earpods to be remotely controlled by the Cybermen. And then, when Jack’s precious Doctor had cut off the signal, they both died, together with all the others under remote control.

“She looked a lot like you,” he murmured, realizing this for the first time. Martha smiled sadly.

“She was my second cousin,” she explained. “Her father and my Mum were first cousins; and we were close. She told me a lot about you… and Lisa.”

“She was a wonderful lady,” Ianto murmured, barely audible over the noise the jet’s engines were making. “They both were,” he looked up to Martha, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Has Jack told you what’s happened to Lisa? What I’ve done?”

Martha nodded slowly. “He knew Adeola and I were related. He felt I deserved to know… I must admit, I was surprised that he hadn’t summarily executed you on the spot. He’d killed people for less before.”

“So was I,” Ianto admitted. “In a way, I almost _hoped_ he would. Lisa had been the whole purpose of my life for so long… I didn’t even know what to do with myself after she was gone. Still don’t understand why he’d leave me alive after that; not to mention why he kept me in Torchwood still.”

“Well,” Martha considered with a broadening grin, “perhaps he already had the hots for you. How did you end up as his… _dabbling partner_ anyway?”

Ianto flushed and murmured something unintelligible. Martha cocked her head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”

“Comfort sex,” Ianto mumbled, flushing even more. “It started with comfort sex, after I was nearly eaten by a bunch of crazed, in-bred cannibals on my first field trip. I needed to feel _alive_ so badly, and… it kinda became a custom afterwards. Until he left with the Doctor, that is.”

“And after he returned?”

“It’s different now. More… personal,” Ianto sighed. “It’s quite nice, actually – as long as it will last.”

“But not the same as with Lisa. “Again, it wasn’t a question.

“Of course not,” Ianto smiled sadly. “Lisa and I were _equals_. Jack will always be something more. Something different. I can never hope to have him just myself. It’s simply not possible.”

“And you’re willing to accept that?” Martha asked.

“I’ve got nothing else,” Ianto replied with a shrug. “I might consider moving on as long as I still can, even if it broke my heart to leave him, if I had any other perspective, but since I have not…” he shrugged again and trailed off helplessly.

Martha bit her lower lip as if battling with herself whether she should speak or not – and chose to do so anyway.

“I think you should listen to the Prime Minister’s offer very carefully,” was all she said.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
This was the first time that Ianto met Prime Minister Harriet Jones face to face, and was relieved to see that the rumours of ill health, which had led to a vote of no confidence a couple of years earlier, had apparently been just that: rumours. She did seem a little tired, true, but otherwise just fine. _Quite_ fine for someone who’d supposedly faced a Dalek invasion and was killed in the Year That Never Was.

She had just re-gained her former position after the failed _coup d’état_ of her own ex-Minister of Defence, a certain Mr Saxon (who, as Ianto knew from Jack, had actually been a Time Lord in disguise and the infamous Doctor’s arch nemesis), and seemed willing and able to face just about everything for Queen and country again. She was that sort of woman: nothing fancy, just a faithful backbencher from such a tiny constituency that she still introduced herself by flashing an identity card and stating her name and position... well, most of the time.

For some reason, she refrained from doing so at the moment, to Ianto’s relief. She simply introduced herself like everyone else – and greeted Martha with the warm familiarity of an old friend. Or, at least, an old acquaintance. It was hard to tell.

“Dr. Jones, how kind of you to accept the invitation,” she said in that simple, honest manner that made her one of the best-liked politicians of the United Kingdom. “I suppose it came at a rather… unfitting time, with you still finishing moving to the States. For that, I’m really sorry.”

“Actually, I’m all but done moving,” Martha replied, “so it wasn’t all that inconvenient.” She gently pushed Ianto into the foreground. “Besides, Mr. Jones and I had the chance to catch up during the flight, so the time was well-used.”

“Oh, yes,” the Prime Minister shook hands for Ianto; for a woman beyond her first youth, she had a surprisingly firm grip. “The young man from Torchwood Three, aren’t you? I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Ma’am,” Ianto replied, more than a little baffled. He wasn’t used to move in such noble circles – even though the Prime Minister seemed a modest enough person, this was well above his usual league.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
With the obligatory greetings out of the way, they were all ushered into some kind of conference room, with a long table in the middle, a whiteboard and an overhead projector screen on the walls and lots of other high-tech stuff everywhere. An impeccably-clad, white-haired man in his fifties was standing at the projector, looking at them with expectation.

“This is Mr. Chapman,” Prime Minister Jones introduced him. “He’s representing Great Britain in the IOA – an international agency overseeing certain space exploration projects based in the United States. Projects that we’d like to hire your cooperation for, ladies and gentleman, as it is Her Majesty’s opinion that British interests hadn’t been taken into proper consideration in recent times. Mr. Chapman, if you’d like…?”

“Certainly, Prime Minister,” the man in the spotless suit replied. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, since all of you are working – or have previously worked – for top secret government projects, I won’t have to bother you with long introductions. Needless to say that nothing I’m about to tell you is allowed to leave this room. If you accept the offer, it will be in your best interest to remain silent about it, If you do not, well, you won’t be remembering anything.”

“Retcon?” Ianto asked. Some things were depressingly the same when it came to the government and its agencies.

Chapman nodded. “The good old amnesia pill, yes. It won’t wipe your memory or whatnot,” he added, seeing the panicked look of some of the visitors. “All you’ll forget about will be this conversation. I assure you, it’s completely harmless.”

“I know,” Ianto said dryly. “I’ve administered it myself, quite a few times.”

That seemed to throw the self-important bureaucrat off-kilter for a moment. “You’ve done _what_?” he demanded.

“He’s Torchwood,” Martha explained with a sardonic little smile, “and I work for UNIT.”

“Oh,” Chapman recovered from his small shock remarkably quickly. “Well, in that case I won’t have to elaborate, I guess.”

“Not about Retcon,” Ianto replied. “But it won’t hurt if you told us about the project itself.”

“I’m just about to do that, Mr…”

“Jones. Ianto Jones.”

“Oh, yes, the Cardiff candidate. Well, Mr. Jones, the bare facts are like this: about ten years ago, the US Air Force managed to get a piece of alien technology – unearthed in Egypt in 1928 by a renowned archaeologist named Langford – to work. What was originally thought to be some mythical object, turned out to be a highly sophisticated gateway that could connect with similar devices on other planets via a traversable wormhole and thus make interplanetary travel possible. Within seconds, I’d like to add. The actual distance between two devices doesn’t influence the length of the travel, it seems. It all depends on the amount of energy that’s being fed into the gate.”

He paused, giving his audience a moment to digest the enormity of the information. Most of the visitors sat in open-minded shock for a minute or so. Just Martha and Ianto kept their calm. Time-travelling with the TARDIS on the one hand and living at the Cardiff space-time rift on the other hand had the tendency to make one accept seemingly impossible things in a surprisingly short time.

Besides, Ianto had the creeping suspicion that this wasn’t the first time Martha had heard all about this. UNIT had their own sources of information and weren’t always too eager to share with Torchwood.

“The Air Force has been exploring foreign planets for a decade by now,” Chapman continued, “and three years ago they finally decided to come out of hiding and share the gathered information with Great Britain, France and China. That was the very move that led to the creation of the I.O.A. British, French, Chinese and other scientists have had limited access to various alien technologies during there years, according to the Gate Alliance Treaty.”

“The _what_?” someone asked.

“A treaty signed by the USA, the United Kingdom, France, China and several other countries,” Chapman explained. “In the original document, the agreement specifies that any knowledge learned from travel to other planets will be openly shared with all signing countries. The wording of the document doesn’t negate military advancements. While this may not apply to studies which are in-progress, it certainly does to the final results.”

“Interesting,” Martha commented. “But where do we come into the picture?”

“Some countries under the treaty, particularly China, have argued that the US military has not fulfilled its promise to disclose all Stargate-gained info and intel,” Chapman replied. “The government of the United Kingdom happens to share these concerns. This is why we decided to take a more active role in space exploration – by sending our own scientists to key research positions; to have them right at the source.”

“That explains Dr. Jones and the geeks here,” Ianto said. “It doesn’t explain why I’ve been invited, though.”

“We’ve got a special task in planning for you, Mr. Jones,” the Prime Minister answered in Chapman’s stead. “I shall have a personal meeting with you and Dr. Jones, after Mr. Chapman has finished the general introduction.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
For the next three and half hours they sat in the conference room, listening to the illustrated lecture of Mr. Chapman about wormhole travel, alien parasites called the Goa’uld, starships of the size of pyramids, little grey men with the names of Norse gods, ascended evil aliens called the Ori, ascended indifferent aliens called the Ancients, epic space battles and the threat of Earth being destroyed – repeatedly and with a certain unnerving regularity – by said Goa’uld. Or the Ori. Or several other aggressive and well-armed alien species.

Of course, after the Battle of Canary Wharf and the Year That Never Was, respectively, such things failed to surprise – or particularly frighten – either Ianto or Martha. In truth, after having seen the Daleks and the Cybermen in action, the Goa’uld and their Jaffa warriors didn’t even seem all that scary. Especially as they were apparently a lot easier to kill. They were human beings, after all – or, at the least, they _inhabited_ human bodies – and no one knew better than Ianto how vulnerable human flesh was.

After the lecture was finished, the others stayed in the conference room for an extensive Q&A session with Mr. Chapman. Martha and Ianto, however, were escorted to the Prime Minister’s private study by a secretary.

“I assume that much of which Mr. Chapman has spoken of – namely the existence and the possible hostile intentions of extraterrestrial life – wasn’t exactly new for the two of you,” Harriet Jones said, offering them tea and biscuits. “That’s why I’ve taken the liberty to call you out of the Q&A session. You can always catch up on the details later. However, as I’ve already mentioned, we – that means Her Majesty, actually, I’m just the messenger – have a special task in mind for you.”

“For us both?” Martha clarified.

The Prime Minister nodded.

“Indeed. As you probably noticed, Mr. Chapman has told you that the possible length of Stargate travel depends on the amount of energy fed into the Stargate. Currently, we can reach any random planet with a corresponding Gate within our own galaxy.”

“Does that mean these devices can be used for intergalactic travel as well?” Ianto asked, absolutely stunned.

“In theory… yes,” the Prime Minister answered. “However, that kind of travel requires an incredible amount of energy and the use of so-called zed-PM devices: energy sources built by the original Gate builders that we call the Ancients. “We – that is, the scientists working for the Stargate program – haven’t found a way to reverse-engineer these devices yet, despite their best efforts. So we’re stuck with the zed-PMs we might find on random planets, in various states of energy level. Unfortunately, once depleted, the devices cannot be recharged and are practically useless.”

“I still can’t see what it could possibly have to do with us,” Martha said. “I’m a _medical_ doctor, and Mr. Jones here isn’t a nuclear scientist, either.”

“I’m coming to _that_ ,” the Prime Minister replied tartly. “Four years ago, Stargate Command used up their only zed-PM to send an international expedition to the Pegasus galaxy – a small galaxy in the local cluster – in the hope to find the lost city of the Ancients: Atlantis. Their hope was to find alien technology there that could help defend Earth against an all-out Goa’uld attack that stood immediately before.”

“Have they succeeded?” Ianto asked.

“Yes and no,” the Prime Minister answered thoughtfully. “They found Atlantis all right – on the bottom of the ocean, its resources nearly depleted. It turns out that – when fuelled by several zed-PMs – the city, which is a spaceship at the same time, is capable of hyperspace travel. Unfortunately, they also found an aggressive species named the Wraith, which feeds on the life energy of human beings, and has all but destroyed the Ancients ten thousand years ago.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Space vampires? How much worse can this story get?”

“You shouldn’t give fate any new ideas, Dr. Jones,” the Prime Minister said grimly. “In any case, the expedition managed to repel several Wraith attacks as well as a race of self-replicating humanoid robots, but Atlantis is a very dangerous outpost. One that needs experienced personnel: people who’re used to alien threats.”

“That’s where you want to send us!” Ianto realized, not entirely sure whether he should whoop in excitement – because, seriously, a different _galaxy_? – or freak out completely, because hello, space vampires and homicidal robots? That sounded a bit too familiar for his peace of mind.

The Prime Minister nodded. “We want a stronger British presence there. A disturbingly great number of the original expedition members have been killed by the Wraith, among them the lead British scientist, Dr. Peter Grodin, as well as their chief medical officer, Dr. Carson Beckett.” She looked at Martha. “The Americans replaced Beckett with a young girl… some kind of child prodigy, who’d never set foot on another planet before. We intend to demand that position to be given back to the United Kingdom, and Her Majesty would like _you_ to take over as the CMO of the outpost, Dr. Jones.”

Martha’s eyes began to gleam in interest. “Well, that certainly sounds interesting. My research back here can wait. Do I get access to all the medical research files of Atlantis?”

“Of course,” Harriet Jones smiled tiredly. “I think you’d be the best possible choice, Dr. Jones. I hope you’ll accept.”

“What about me?” Ianto asked. “I won’t be able to replace your lead scientist, I’m afraid.”

“You won’t have to,” the Prime Minister replied. “We need you as the personal assistant of the new expedition leader.”

“And why would be making coffee in another galaxy more attractive for me than making coffee for my boss in Cardiff?” Ianto’s voice clearly signalled that he didn’t see the attraction at all.

“I’m not sure Mr. Woolsey even drinks coffee,” the Prime Minister answered. “Nor do we need you there to be his butler. You’ll be his personal aide, his archivist, his researcher. It would be basically the same work you did for Director Hartmann at Torchwood London – just with extended responsibilities.”

“What kind of responsibilities?” Ianto asked.

The Prime Minister sighed. “Mr. Woolsey is a decent man, but I’m told his people skills aren’t exactly outstanding. You’ll have to work as a buffer between him and the old expedition members who probably won’t be taking kindly that he’s been set before their noses. I won’t be lying to you: you’d probably have to deal with the logistics of organizing the schedules of several hundred people, coming from a dozen different countries, plus interacting with visitors from various local planets, coordinating things with the commanding officers of visiting spaceships, not all of them human… _and_ keeping your boss from being killed by either of those factions until he grows into his new job – assuming he ever does.”

“Hmmm…” Ianto thought about the possibilities for a while. “It certainly sounds like a good challenge; I have to admit at least that much.”

“You’re more than up to it,” Martha encouraged him. “You did a good job at Torchwood London; and parking spaceships isn’t _that_ much different from parking cars under the office building.”

“I beg to differ,” Ianto replied. “Nonetheless, a change of scenery does have a certain attraction. How long does this hypothetical assignment suppose to last?”

“The usual tour of duty for new Atlantis personnel lasts one year,” the Prime Minister said. “At least for the military, that is. Scientists usually stay for two years or more. Some of them have been there from the beginning and show no intention to leave ever again.”

“ _One_ year,” Martha said with emphasis. “That’s what I’m willing to accept, for starters. When it’s over, I’ll decide whether to stay or to return home.”

Harriet Jones nodded. “Fair enough. What about you, Mr. Jones? Would you at least consider accepting the offer? We _really_ need someone to represent British interests on Mr. Woolsey’s side.”

“I have to think about this,” Ianto said. “But hypothetically, if I’m supposed to even consider it, I want a clean cut.”

The Prime Minister frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean a free discharge from Torchwood,” Ianto answered. “A simple release – no Retcon, no brainwashing, no stuffing my stuff and my frozen corpse away under the Hub when I die. I want to be free, to lead a normal life… as far as it’s possible for someone with my past.”

“That’s a lot to ask for,” the Prime Minister said. “Torchwood rules…”

“I know the rules, Ma’am,” Ianto interrupted. “But I also know that Her Majesty has the ultimate control over everything Torchwood-related. She can grant this; and if you truly want me to go to Atlantis so badly, you should ask her. Because this is my only condition, should I decide to accept.”

The Prime Minister looked at Martha in a silent plea for help, but the pretty doctor just shrugged.

“I’d do it, Ma’am,” she said. “He’s a Welshman. Once he’s made up his mind arguments are of no use with him.”

“All right,” Harriet Jones said with a defeated sigh. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll send a batch of mission reports to your hotel rooms. You need to know what to expect in case you’re taking the job.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Are you sure this is what you really want?” Martha asked, more than a little concerned. She and Ianto were having a late dinner at a small Chinese restaurant, where the average noise level would make any listening devices securely useless.

Ianto nodded. “My life has been about Torchwood for almost five years by now,” he said. “I’m twenty-six, Martha, and I’ve spent the last two of my most productive years in some stinky bunker, between weevils, a pterodactyl and Owen! And I’ve become so attuned to Jack’s moods and wishes that I don’t even know what _I want_ anymore. If I don’t leave _now_ , at least for a while, I never will. I’ll end up like a wrinkled old ghost, watching Jack move on, embittered and yet unable to tear myself away. I do love him, but I deserve better than that!”

“Yes, you do,” she agreed, “and I won’t hold you back, even if it will without doubt break your heart. But Atlantis? Life there won’t be any safer than at Torchwood.”

“Yeah, but it would secure me a way _out of Torchwood_ ,” Ianto pointed out. “Life is dangerous everywhere, and we all have to die one day, but… but I don’t want to die in depression and despair, among the ghosts of the past and the frozen corpses of previous Torchwood victims. Like poor Tosh. I’ve been hiding in the shadows for so long – I want to go out into the sunlight, if only for a short while!”

“Besides, living in another galaxy would keep you from crawling back to Jack on all fours in a moment of weakness,” Martha said knowingly.

“There is that,” Ianto admitted ruefully. “I’m not sure I can live without him anymore. Perhaps I’m too intoxicated already, but I have at least to _try_.”

“And if it doesn’t work,” Martha asked, because knowing how devoted Ianto was to Jack, that was a very real possibility.

Ianto made that self-deprecating little shrug of his. “Well, I can always crawl back to him on all fours, can’t I?”

“ _If_ he takes you back,” Martha warned him. “He won’t take your leaving kindly.”

“I wasn’t that elated by _his_ leaving, either,” Ianto replied sharply, because that was one thing that had never ceased hurting. “At least I’ll have the decency to warn him in advance.”

Martha shook her head in mild exasperation. “If there ever was a dysfunctional relationship…”

Ianto shrugged again. “It’s what it is. Considering the differences between our life expectations, it has worked out pretty well so far. And if we can’t deal with a year-long hiatus, despite him having all the time in the world, then it was doomed from the beginning anyway.”

“He still won’t take it kindly,” Martha said. “He’s not good at losing people. Brings out the worst of him.”

“I’m not breaking up with him,” Ianto said. “And he’d lose me one day, no matter what. The only difference is whether I’ve ever _lived_ before _that_ happens.”

“He might see it differently,” Martha said. Ianto sighed.

“I can’t help it, Martha. Having come to London, having put a little distance between us made me realize how desperately I need to get away from him for a while. I’m in danger to lose myself, so long has my life been revolving around other people. First Lisa then Jack; I… I just need to be _me_ for a while. To get a life, to do a job without the constant fear in my gut, to meet people, just for the fun of it…”

“In a galaxy populated by space vampires and homicidal robots?” Martha asked with an imperiously arched eyebrow. “Sounds like Torchwood all over again to me.”

“In a galaxy far away from him,” Ianto replied. “Far away from Gwen’s constant scheming to break us up. Far away from the company of Lisa and Tosh’s frozen corpses; and that of Jack’s insane brother who wanted to kill us all, just because _he_ loved us. Far away from John Hart blundering into our lives unexpectedly to destroy everything. Far away from the TARDIS landing in our back yard and sweeping him away again.”

“You don’t _have_ a back yard,” Martha pointed out, “and Jack wouldn’t leave you again.”

Ianto looked up to her, his eyes full of anguish.

“Are you certain about that?” he asked, and as Martha couldn’t answer, he nodded emphatically. “Me neither. And that is why I have to take this chance. It might be my last one left.”


	3. A Clean Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t really believe that Rhys was _that_ naïve, did you? Well, I did not.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 03 – A CLEAN CUT**

Captain Jack Harkness, fearless leader of Torchwood Three and dashing hero of many unsung battles against alien invaders, stared at his young lover/employee/friend… whatever as if said young man had suddenly grown tentacles out of his ears. Or horns protruding from his temples. Or an entirely new head.

“You are planning to do _what_?” he demanded.

Ianto just smiled at him serenely, in his patented, understated coffee boy fashion that he reserved for medium-sized crisises. He knew Jack had understood him perfectly well at the first time… just wasn’t willing to believe what he was feeling.

“This is well beyond the planning phase, Jack,” he repeated patiently, grateful that Gwen had remembered having a husband at home and left to look after him half an hour ago; the last thing they needed were her comments, as she wouldn’t leave them alone to have a conversation, no matter what. “I’m leaving Torchwood, effective immediately, no usual consequences attached. No Retcon or any other kind of mind-wipe, no getting me into one of those lovely cryogenic units after my death. Nothing.”

“That’s impossible,” Jack said. “ _Nobody_ leaves Torchwood. Ever. Not without being Retconned back into the Stone Age anyway.”

“Unless they get an official discharge from Her Majesty personally, in written and properly registered form,” Ianto corrected. “Which I have, in order to be able to take this new position I’ve been selected for by certain government representatives.”

“And that position would be…?” Jack asked, still not quite willing to believe that all this wasn’t just an elaborate hoax. Ianto could have a rather sadistic streak of humour sometimes.

“Personal Assistant to the leader of an international research group at a remote outpost,” Ianto replied matter-of-factly. “A _very_ remote one. I’ll probably be out of touch for at least a year.”

“Just _how_ remote are we talking about?” Jack asked suspiciously.

Ianto gave him a bland smile. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Jack. I’m not quite certain myself, to be honest. But they say the planet’s beautiful. It apparently has five moons, although only two of them are visible to the naked eye.”

“The… planet…” rarely in his long life had Jack Harkness been rendered absolutely speechless; this was one of those rare occasions. “They’re sending you to _outer space_?”

Ianto nodded, a dreamy grin blossoming all over his face. “Oh, yeah…”

Jack was so surprised that for a moment he almost forgot the actual problem: namely that Ianto was about to leave Torchwood… and _him_.

“I didn’t know that mankind was capable of interstellar travel in the twenty-first century,” he murmured in confusion. “The current state of space-faring technology…”

“…wouldn’t be enough, I know,” Ianto interrupted. “But Jack, did you really believe Torchwood was the only organization scavenging alien technology?”

“If there were anyone else, we’d know,” Jack said.

“Are you sure about it?” Ianto asked. “If _we_ could conceal the existence of Torchwood, the existence of the Rift, the Daleks, the Cybermen and all this from the Russians and the Americans, isn’t it a little arrogant to assume that _they_ wouldn’t be able to do the same about other alien stuff?”

“They did?” Jack asked, still a little doubtfully.

Ianto nodded. “Yeah, they did. The first disclosure to our government was just three years ago, and by then, the American programme had been running for seven years and the Russian one for two.”

“And what the hell did they want you for?” Jack inquired. “You’re not an astrophysicist or whatnot.”

“No,” Ianto agreed. “But I’ve studied economics, management and computer science, and they need someone who does the background work for the boss,” he gave a small, twisted smile. “Kinda like here, just without being the coffee boy… or disposing of the dead bodies. They have Marines for _that_ part.”

“And without grotesque aliens to wipe out all life on Earth,” Jack guessed.

Ianto laughed. “Oh, no; they do have _those_ in spades, apparently. Travelling in hyperspace on big, honking spaceships of the size of entire cities. Torchwood really ought to do something about updating the satellite systems; we’ve missed several space battles in Earth orbit in the recent years, it seems.”

Jack shrugged. “Need to know works both ways, I presume. We don’t need to worry about problems others can solve without our help… not that we’d be very efficient at the moment.”

He cupped Ianto’s face in one big hand and leaned in to kiss the young man. “You don’t have to leave, you know. We’re above the government. They can’t _make_ you leave.”

“The Queen can,” Ianto accepted the kiss eagerly, kissing him back, “but there’s no need to _make_ me do anything. I _want_ to go. I’m needed there, it seems, and while we’re independent indeed, it’s still my government. I’ve voted for them, and that means a certain responsibility. Serving Queen and country _does_ have a meaning for me.”

“But do you have to leave Torchwood for that?” Jack slipped a hand under Ianto’s jacket, stroking his back. “Can’t you just do the job for a while and then return to us? Return to _me_?”

“I could,” Ianto admitted, “But I don’t want to. I love you, Jack, more than it’s probably healthy for me, but I’m sick and tired of fighting Gwen for your affections all the time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jack laughed, but it sounded hollow, even in his own ears. “I don’t have anything going on with Gwen.”

“I know,” Ianto said, “albeit not for the lack of trying on her side. But that’s not the point.”

“Oh? What _is_ the point then?”

“The point is, Captain, that I’ve been offered something better than a continued existence as your glorified butler,” Ianto returned sharply.

Jack raised an arrogant eyebrow. “Was it not what you wanted? If I remember correctly, you’ve _begged_ for the chance to be my butler.”

Ianto nodded. “I did. While I had Lisa to consider, it didn’t matter that while you all looked at me, neither of you did really _see_ me; as if I had been part of the furniture. That you all took me for granted. That Owen gave me nasty nicknames, and _you_ , Jack… you treated me like a dog who’d return to you at the first whistle, no matter how many times kicked in the ribs.”

“That’s grossly exaggerated,” Jack tried to ease the tension with a lame joke. “I’d never shag my dog.”

“No,” Ianto agreed bitterly. “You’d _respect_ your dog if you had one.”

Jack lifted his chin to look him in the eyes. “That’s what you really think? That I don’t respect you?”

“Yes. No, I… I don’t even know what I’m supposed to believe,” Ianto sighed in defeat. “Look, Jack, I… I _need_ to do this. To be free from Torchwood… to be free from _you_ for a while. To figure out what’s really going on with me. What I can expect from life. It _has_ to be more than Torchwood and Weevils in the basement and a dead pterodactyl, and all the frozen corpses of people who used to be my friends… or more. This might be my only chance to break out from this… this _crypt_. It’s killing me, piece by piece, and I’ve barely even lived yet. I’m not immortal like you, Jack; I can’t keep wasting my time!”

As much as it hurt Jack that Ianto apparently considered his years at Torchwood as a waste of time, deep within he knew that the young man was right. He had practically spent the recent years in the Hub, first in Lisa’s bunker, then in Jack’s own room, only going home to sleep, and not even _that_ each night. That was no life for someone so young; for someone who’d seen so much horror already.

“All right,” he said, swallowing his disappointment with practiced ease; he was getting way too good at it, and what did _that_ tell about him? “Are you ever going to come back?”

“I don’t know,” Ianto admitted. “I’m sorry, Jack, I really am, but I can’t promise everything else than I’ll tell you when I’ve figured it out.”

“I see,” Jack remained silent for a moment. “Does it mean that you’re breaking up with me, then?”

“Have we ever been truly together?” Ianto asked very seriously. “Is there a real chance for us to _be_ together, like other people do, considering who you are and what I’m not?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replied honestly. “But I _was_ trying, wasn’t I?”

“You were,” Ianto allowed, “I’ll give you that. And last year was… well, you _did_ make me happy. Happier than I’ve been for a long time. I just… I just need to figure out if I’ll ever be able to live without you – which I _will_ have to, one day. You _will_ have to move on, eventually. I won’t always stay young and pretty.”

“So you’d rather leave me now, to get used to the feeling?” Jack asked incredulously. “Ianto, that’s bullshit, and you know it!”

“No,” Ianto said tiredly. “I’m trying to build myself a life that doesn’t exclusively revolve around you. If I manage that, we can consider getting back together; because _then_ I’d be your _partner_ ; not just your part-time shag, as Owen so eloquently put it.”

“You’ve _never_ been just that for me,” Jack said, cupping the young man’s face again and caressing a prominent cheekbone with the pad of a thumb.

“Haven’t I?” Ianto asked. “Who was it then who answered Gwen’s question at her wedding – the one when she asked what you’ll be doing in her absence – with _Oh, the usual... Pizza, Ianto_ …?”

Jack rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Ianto, it was a _joke_! A rather lame one, I admit, but it _was_ a joke!”

“It was not how it sounded to _me_ ,” Ianto replied. “Or to Gwen; she was quite smug to tell me about it afterwards.”

“She did _what_?” Jack could barely believe his ears.

“Leave it, Jack,” Ianto said tiredly. “It was her moment of victory; to see me placed on the same level as your other recreational activities. And you did give her the satisfaction of ogling _her_ while dancing with _me_. For the first time, I dared to make a move, and you slapped me down.”

“Ianto,” Jack said, almost begging. “I’m not in love with Gwen!”

“I know,” Ianto replied sadly. “That’s perhaps the worst part of this entire sorry affair. I… I just can’t do this anymore, Jack! Please, let me go. Give me the chance to become… to become myself. Please.”

Jack’s hand fell away from the young man’s face. “You don’t need my permission to go,” he said in a tone that was unusually harsh.

“Oh, yes, I do,” Ianto murmured brokenly. “I... I can’t walk away from you, unless you let me. So set me free. If you really care for me, as you say, set me free.”

“When do you have to leave?” Jack asked.

“First thing in the morning,” Ianto replied. “Agent Bates will take me to the airport again, and we’ll fly with Captain Miller’s _Minnie_ to the States.”

“You’ve packed everything already, I assume,” Jack said.

It was not a question. Ianto was nothing if not efficient, sometimes even freakishly so. He’d be missing that efficiency painfully… aside from missing Ianto himself.

Ianto nodded. “Packed, sealed, stored, flat quit starting with tomorrow, car put in a garage, yeah. Its not that I’d have much to put away.”

That, again, was nothing new. Ianto hadn’t brought much personal stuff to Cardiff; and most of it had been Lisa’s. His own books and other items he wanted to keep were left with his sister, Rhiannon, and her family.

“Does your sister know?” Jack asked.

“Just that I’ll be taking a different job in the overseas,” Ianto gave him a crooked smile. “She and Johnny are quite happy about it, actually. They were always nagging me _not_ to waste my life in a shaggy tourist office. They wanted me to do something where my talents would be put to better use.”

“You never told me…” Jack felt a little ashamed, knowing that he’d taken Ianto quite literally by his original offer. To be their janitor. Their butler. Their _teaboy_ , as Owen used to call him.

Ianto shrugged. “What good would _that_ have done? As you’ve said yourself, as a rule there’s no way out of Torchwood; and besides, I _wanted_ to be here. First to try help Lisa, then because of you.”

“Past tense,” Jack said meaningfully.

“I still _want_ to be with you,” Ianto answered. “I just don’t think it’s good for me right now. I need a timeout; to clear my head, to think about everything that’s happened in the last three years… to decide whether we truly have a chance to make this… whatever this is between us… work.”

“And you’ll tell me when you’ve come to a decision?” John asked.

“Of course,” Ianto replied with a tired half-smile. “I’d never leave you without saying proper good-byes.”

 _Unlike you_ , the unspoken addition hung between them. It did not need to be voiced. But Jack answered it anyway.

“I came back, right?”

“And so shall I,” Ianto rubbed his eyes tiredly. “So… do I have your permission to depart, Captain, sir?”

“Granted,” Jack sighed; then he pulled Ianto in and kissed him long and hard till they were both seeing stars. “One year, Ianto! I expect you to be here and give me some answers in one year’s time, and not a nanosecond later.”

“I shall do my best, sir,” Ianto mock-saluted.

Then he turned around and fled the Hub as long as he still could. A moment later he might not have the strength to do so.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Gwen returned to the Hub in the afternoon, dragging Rhys with her for some reason Jack couldn’t really understand. Rhys seemed more than a little uncomfortable, which wasn’t particularly surprising, as he didn’t have any pleasant memories related to Gwen’s job.

Gwen, on the other hand, seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood. She gave Jack a slightly too friendly hug; then she looked around expectantly.

“I could use a coffee right now,” she announced. “Where’s Ianto?”

“Ianto is gone,” Jack replied flatly.

Gwen glared at him with a frown. “What do you mean ‘gone’? I thought he’s bought all the groceries we’ll need this week.”

“Gone,” Jack repeated. “As in leaving Torchwood for another job. I’m afraid you’ll have to make your own coffee in the future. And to clean up your own mess.”

“B-but I thought… you said nobody can leave Torchwood, ever!” Gwen protested. It was hard to tell what upset her more: the thought that she’d have to make her own coffee or that someone _else_ was allowed to ignore the rules.

“Not as a rule, they can’t,” Jack agreed. “But there are exceptions from every rule… under very specific circumstances. And this time the circumstances _are_ different.”

“Oh, boy!” Gwen smiled that smug little cat-ate-the-canary smile of hers. “That must have been an astronomical amount of Retcon to make him forget all those years he worked for Torchwood! Was that five years? Or six? And Lisa, and what happened to her… and _you_ ,” the last part seemed to give her the most satisfaction.

“Retcon?” Rhys repeated. “What’s that?”

“Amnesia pills,” Jack explained. “The same ones we gave your and Gwen’s parents after the wedding to make them forget the whole alien embryo in the bride part.“

“You gave Ianto the same stuff?” Rhys shook his head, not really liking the idea; but again, he was a decent person. “Poor bloke, how many did he need to forget five or six _years_?”

“None,” Jack said simply. “I haven’t Retconned him at all.”

“What?” Gwen demanded, her eyes blazing in what she thought was righteous anger. “You’d have Retconned Rhys after that alien meatball case had I let you, but you’d allow _Ianto_ to remember everything?”

“Actually,” Rhys interjected, “you should have let him. I’d prefer _not_ to remember.”

Gwen turned to him, open-mouthed and teary-eyed for the greater effect. “I didn’t want him to mess with your mind, love, can’t you understand that?”

Rhys shrugged, his eyes darkening with horrid memories he hadn’t really wanted to keep. “And having seen what I saw won’t mess with my mind, you think? Besides, you’ve given me those amnesia pills before, haven’t you?”

“I… how…” After searching for the right words unsuccessfully for several moments, Gwen whirled around, glaring at Jack in accusation. “Jack! What have you told him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Jack replied tiredly. “You should learn to be more discreet with your loose mouth… and your body language. Your hubby isn’t an idiot, you know, even if you often treat him like one.”

“So, it’s true then,” Rhys said slowly. “I’ve always thought she was hiding from me something. Which one of you was it, Jack? You? The pretty coffee boy? Or the zombie doctor?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t _me_ ,” Jack said, bitterly enjoying the flash of anger and disappointment in Gwen’s eyes. “I might flirt with everything on two legs – and that’s not bloody likely to change any time soon – but I don’t blunder into someone else’s committed relationship. It’s a rare enough thing among Torchwood employees as it is. And Ianto is a one-partner-at-a-time kind of guy. Not to mention that Gwen would never give him the time of the day.”

Rhys nodded in defeat. “So it was the doctor, then. I’m not surprised. The signs were there all the time; I just didn’t want to see them.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jack replied noncommittally.

“You don’t have to,” Rhys said. “I… I always had the feeling that something just wouldn’t add up, ever since Gwen started to work for you. She became so… distant, so preoccupied all the time. She’d never been like that before.”

“She never worked on top secret projects before,” Jack pointed out.

Rhys shook his head. “That I could understand. But there was more than just that. I always felt it – I just couldn’t put my finger on it, not really. But I know she was lying to me about something. It was more than just not being able to talk about her work.” He looked at his wife and sighed. “A year ago, when you got shot by those village people on a field mission… you thought I wouldn’t call the hospital? Well, I did. They told me that you left with your doctor friend, after they’ve patched you up. You never returned home that night.”

“Did you know where she was?” Jack asked.

Rhys shook his head again. “To be honest, I thought she came back to you. It’s been all about you in those months; sometimes it was really getting on my nerves. But I hoped it would wear off, eventually; things like that had happened before. And when you left, it seemed that we might actually get our chance,” he ducked apologetically. “I’m sorry, man; I never wanted anything ill happening to you, I just…”

“You were just glad to have me out of the way,” Jack finished for him, grinning humourlessly. “I understand that; although I didn’t have any intention to stand between the two of you. I was already… _involved_ with Ianto before I left, didn’t she tell you?”

“She said it wasn’t anything important,” Rhys shrugged. “That it was just your coffee boy being in puppy love and you taking what was willing and available… until something better came your way.”

“She’d say hat, wouldn’t she?” Jack said slowly.

It was so very… _Gwen_ , seeing things exclusively through the tinted glasses of her wishes and making tactless remarks. Well, granted, Jack had made the one or other tactless remark himself; he’d just never expected Gwen to take those remarks as encouragement – or Ianto to be so deeply hurt by them as he had apparently been. It seemed he still had to learn a lot about twenty-first century sensitivities.

“Well,” he said, turning to Rhys, “there seems to be quite the misunderstanding. I’m who I am, but I don’t _use_ my co-workers for simple stress relief.”

Rhys nodded in ready agreement. “Now that I’ve come to know you a little better, I can actually believe that. Somehow I don’t think you’d do that to the boy; as I said, he’s a nice bloke, and he’d die for you. Even a blind man can see that.”

“Except that he’s just left Jack for another job,” Gwen commented pointedly. “I’d just _love_ to know what they offered him: a bigger coffee machine? Or a new suit?”

“They offered him even more work and more responsibility, not that it would be your concern,” Jack replied through gritted teeth, using all his considerable willpower to resist the urge to slap her silly. “And he’s not _leaving_ me for good. He’s accepted the job for a trial period of _one_ year, because you can't very well refuse when the Queen herself wants you to do a job for Crown and country. We can afford that time. He’s young… and I’m not getting any older, am I.”

“And after a _year_ of separation, you’ll get together again, just like that, won’t you?” Gwen asked with a very un-ladylike snort.

Jack bit back the first, instinctive answer that had very nearly got out. If she’d suddenly developed such a nasty streak, there was no need to lower himself to _that_ level, too. Or was this development neither sudden nor particularly new? Ianto _had_ hinted at something like that before leaving the Hub… In any case, he wouldn’t give Gwen the satisfaction to show his nagging doubts.

“It’s up to Ianto,” he replied simply, looking at her expectant face.

Seeing that smug expression twist into a mask of anger was a thing of beauty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto had expected the last night spent in the bleak little flat that had been his so-called home for three years to be an uneventful one. The flat was practically empty, all his things taken away and stored to wait for his eventual return – or sent forward to be there in the States upon his arrival. A change of clothes, toiletries and a sleeping bag – that was all that was still there from his previous life.

He’d pack those in the last suitcase in the morning, together with he books he’d selected for the long flight to Colorado, US – just in case Martha and he would run out of conversation topics, which he doubted. Martha knew a great many things Ianto was eager to learn about, and – unlike Jack – was quite willing to talk about the Doctor and their journeys in the TARDIS. Especially now, after Ianto had severed ties with Torchwood and was no longer expected to report everything to his superiors.

Not that _that_ would have been a problem right now, with Jack practically leading the whole organization, but circumstances could change, and although she’d gotten over the Doctor crush-wise – well, _mostly_ – she still didn’t want to cause him any harm. But Ianto wasn’t Torchwood any longer (and that, admittedly, was a very strange feeling), and thus meant no potential threat for the Doctor. So Martha didn’t see any reason why _not_ to talk to him.

And she had amazing stories to tell! Ianto was truly looking forward to their eighteen-day-journey to the Pegasus galaxy by _spaceship_ (and just how cool was _that_?), when he’d have the chance to ask all the questions he always wanted to ask. About Jack himself, about the Doctor, the TARDIS, all the dangers and wonders she’d encountered as the Doctor’s companion.

He wondered whether she knew more about Jack’s former life than she had hinted so far. Whether she’d be willing to discuss _that_ particular topic. Whether he _really_ should ask or better let sleeping dragons lie.

He knew that in the end he _would_ ask anyway, regardless if he was gonna like what he’d learn. He was a researcher at heart. That had been what made the head-hunters of Torchwood London interested in him in the first place. He needed to _know_ , to _understand_ before he could accept. And when he’d learned to understand and accept this important factor – this all-important _person_ – in his current life, only then will he be able to focus all his energies on his new, promising job.

He wanted to do a good job in Atlantis. He wanted to earn the respect of his new co-workers, to become a full-fledged member of the expedition, not just the personal servant of the boss. Normally, personal assistants were important people, even if not as highly valued as they would deserve. He wanted to step out of the shadows, to be noticed and appreciated. No longer just the coffee boy. Never again. He was more than just that. Much more, even if rude idiots like Owen could never see it.

The doorbell rang, starting him out of his thoughts. He wondered who it might be. The only one from Torchwood Three who ever visited him had been Tosh, and sadly, she was gone. She was just a frozen corpse under the Hub, like so many others. Friends and foes put into storage together. What a macabre thing!

The doorbell rang again. Ianto sighed and decided to answer it, before whoever was standing on his doorstep woke up the entire house. Although who could want to visit him in the middle of the night was beyond him.

Still, he wasn’t particularly surprised to see Jack standing in front of the door, hands in the pocket of his greatcoat. Not surprised… more resigned, actually. Jack wasn’t good at giving up what he considered _his_.

“Have you come to tell me that you’ve changed your mind?” Ianto asked in defeat. He knew he wouldn’t be strong enough to leave if Jack asked him to stay.

To his relief, though, Jack shook his head. “No,” he said. “I just… I just don’t want to be without you tonight. A year is a very long time; I thought we could create some lasting memories before you leave.”

Ianto’s first instinct was to say _no_. He knew Jack would go away if he told him so; this one time he would. But after a moment he realized that a year without Jack would be a _very_ long time indeed. Perhaps creating a few memories wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Besides, when could he really say _no_ to Jack? Not for a long while.

“All right,” he said resignedly,”come on in, then.”

It was something of a shock to see that guarded expression behind Jack’s usual, almost-too-bright smile melt into utter relief. To realize that this time Jack had actually expected to be sent away. Perhaps there still was hope for them, after all.


	4. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must ruefully admit that I still don’t know nearly enough about _Dr. Who_. All references here are the results of Internet research; I apologize if I’ve misinterpreted anything. Sergeant “Dusty” Mehra is from the 5th season Atlantis episode “Whispers”. We never actually learned much about her.
> 
> And before anyone starts to give me grief about it, yes, I **know** the story shifts to present tense somewhere in the middle of the chapter. It’s **intentional**. I’ve got my reasons for that. You’re welcome to guess what they are. ;o)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**PART 04 – FIRST IMPRESSIONS**

Ianto’s departure from Cardiff was a blessedly uneventful one. Jack had left about an hour before Agent Bates’ arrival, which was, quite frankly, a relief, as no one could foretell what he’d have been inclined to do in the unusually strange mood he’d been since hearing of Ianto’s planned departure. For all his flirtatious nature and flamboyant manners, Jack Harkness didn’t bear well people leaving him, not even after proper warning.

Ruining any of his suits on such a long flight (considering that “Minnie” wasn’t exactly a luxury airbus) would have been wasteful, and so Ianto decided to wear casual jeans, a comfortable T-shirt and a jacket instead. Martha – the only familiar face among the eight passengers, with the exception of Bates himself – took in his new looks with a nod of approval.

“You look older in casual wear,” she judged, “which is a good thing, even though you’re prettier in a suit. Pretty is _not_ the look you’d be aiming for on this mission.”

“I shall try to conceal my awesomeness, although it won’t be an easy task,” Ianto replied mildly.

Martha raised a queenly eyebrow. “Learning from Jack how to battle your natural shyness, are you?” she asked; then, seeing Ianto wince as he took a seat next to her, she grinned. “Oh, my… that seems a bit painful. Have been involved in some serious… _dabbling_ activities last night? Crossing the border between innovative and avant garde?”

“Not really,” Ianto tried to find a less uncomfortable position… and failed. “Just, uh, trying to create a few lasting memories.”

“And succeeding, by the sight of it,” Martha commented with twinkling eyes.

“Well, walking funny for days and not being able to sit down properly for a week afterwards certainly counts as _lasting_ memory in my book,” Ianto admitted dryly. “We both needed this, though.”

It was strange how easy he found to speak with her about things he usually _never_ discussed with anyone, not even with Jack himself, unless he absolutely couldn’t avoid it. Not that he’d have been repressed – well, perhaps a tiny bit – he was just a very private person. But with Martha he felt as if he could lower his inner shields, just a few inches… and it was liberating.

“How did Jack take your decision?” she asked; then she promptly answered herself. “Not well, I guess. He has… abandonment issues.”

“Which one of us hasn't?” Ianto returned, shrugging. “He accepted my choice; to let me go build a life for myself outside of his area of influence. We’ve made a deal: for the next year, we’re both free to seek out other choices if we want. After that… we’ll see.”

“You’ve taken quite the risk with that deal,” Martha warned. “ _If_ you want to get together with him again, that is. He grows restless easily.”

“I know,” Ianto sighed. “But I need to know if there’s anything more than him having grown comfortable with me.”

“And if there isn’t?” Martha asked quietly.

“Well, in that case I’ll have to find something else to live for, haven’t I?” Ianto replied with a sad little smile. “I mean it _is_ possible, isn’t it? _You_ have managed to move on, haven’t you?”

Martha nodded. “Yeah, I have; and I hope for you that _if_ you choose to move on, you’ll find someone else, too.”

“I really don’t know any longer what to hope for,” Ianto said wistfully; then he looked around and changed the topic. “Hey, how comes that I can’t see any of the other people who were incited to the Prime Minister last week? Did none of them qualify?”

“Oh, some of them did hire up for the various science projects, I heard,” Martha said. “But they weren’t meant to be recruited for Atlantis like you and me.”

“And these other folks are?” Ianto asked, nodding towards the other passengers. “I mean, aside from Agent Bates here. He’s just babysitting us, right?”

“Actually… no,” Martha answered. “He told me that he’s been reassigned to Atlantis. Mr. Woolsey wants some civilian security there, and Bates used to be the chief of security there while still in the military.”

“He was already on Atlantis?”

“Yeah; went there with the original expedition as part of the Marine platoon. And before that, he’d served on one of the SGC’s off-world teams for years. He’s an experienced veteran.”

“Good for us,” Ianto said. “Do you know anyone else here, then?”

Martha looked at the others – perhaps for the first time since their take-off – and then nodded in recognition.

“Two of them, actually; they both used to be, or still are, UNIT personnel. The pretty blonde is Sally Jacobs; she was the technician on duty in the UNIT facility in the Tower of London, during the Sycorax invasion back in 2005. It took quite the time and extensive therapy to reconstruct her memories after Sycorax mind control wiped them out, but eventually, we succeeded. She’s been chosen for Gate room duty on Atlantis, as she’s unlikely to freak out when a hostile alien ship appears in orbit. She’s used to such things, after all.”

“That makes sense,” Ianto admitted. “Who’s the other one?”

“Her,” Martha discretely pointed her chin in the reaction of a dark-eyed Latino beauty wearing a nondescript uniform but with the infamous red cap of UNIT soldiers. “Sergeant Mehra, called Dusty by her fellows. She served in the US-division of UNIT; a really hard-arsed one, and _not_ in the sense Jack would appreciate it. In fact, I think she’d break his nose, would he try to make a pass at her.”

“Is she exclusively into girls?” Ianto asked the female soldier in question with a little doubt. Sure, she seemed to be a tough one, but not the clichéd walk-in-closet, militantly lesbian way.

Martha grinned. “Nah, I think she’s simply too much into her job to care for either men or women. And she’s damn good at it, too. She always requests transfers into the areas where there are the most bad guys to kill.”

“Sounds bloodthirsty,” Ianto gave the deceivingly lovely Sergeant a wary look.

“Just professional,” Martha replied with a shrug. “She’s a fine soldier; and should you ever have to go off-world with her, the best chance to survive is to shut up, follow her orders and let her do her job. She’s never lost a team-mate so far.”

Ianto raised an amused eyebrow. “She gives _orders_?”

Martha nodded sagely. “And expects them to be obeyed, unless you want your eyeballs to swap places with their… erm… counterparts in the lower regions.”

“You really do have a dirty mouth,” Ianto laughed. He enjoyed the easy camaraderie with Martha very much; this was something he’d always missed during his years in Torchwood Cardiff.

“Sometimes,” Martha admitted, grinning. “But I wasn’t joking, not really. Apparently, she’s once neutralized a lesser Goa’uld by grabbing his crotch and crushing his testicles with one hand. The symbiont needed _days_ to repair the damage.”

Ianto pressed his knees together instinctively at _that_ mental image, wincing in sympathetic pain. “Ow! I wish I could have introduced her to Owen, back when he could still feel pain.”

Martha gave him a reproving look. “Don’t be so mean to him. He wasn’t that bad.”

“Not to _you_ perhaps,” Ianto returned sourly. “It wasn’t you whom he always called teaboy… and that was the nicest name he had for me.”

To that Martha had no answer, and Ianto gratefully dropped the topic, curling up in his seat and slowly drifting off to sleep. As much as he wanted to ask Martha questions – _many_ questions – about the Doctor and Jack and their time together, the strenuous activities of last night finally caught up with him.

Besides, there would be time to ask those questions alter. Right now, sleep was more important.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Due to the difference between time zones, it was early morning when they landed in Colorado Springs, jet-lagged and feeling as if they hadn’t slept for a week. The supremely efficient Agent Bates soon had all of them stored in various cars and taken to their respective hotels.

“Mission briefing is at fourteen hundred,” he informed them with military precision, it was one of those once a Marine always a Marine things. “You’ll be taken to the Cheyenne Mountain to meet General Landry and Mr. Woolsey. I suggest that you get some rest in the morning, because these briefings tend to be a little tenuous, especially if Mr. Woolsey participates. Oh, and here,” he handed them a few leaflets, “these are restaurants right around the corner, but they deliver to the hotel as well. I also suggest a big lunch. Hungry and jet-lagged isn’t the right state to face the brass.”

He left them alone then, and Martha and Ianto decided to take his advice to heart. There was breakfast to have in the hotel; a fairly acceptable one, in fact, so they gave it a try. Then they went for a walk to locate the restaurants Bates had recommended. It was a nice variety of McDonald’s, Pizza Huts and Chinese, all seeming acceptable enough. Having checked them out, they returned to have some sleep before lunch.

Ianto still felt uncomfortably sore from the previous night, so he opted for a long, hot bath first, which did wonders for him – he had only had showers while living in Cardiff, so an actual bath seemed the height of decadence – and then called Jack on his mobile phone before falling asleep. They talked in the usual Torchwood code for a few minutes, Jack reassuring Ianto that the Rift still behaved and Weevils hadn’t taken over Cardiff yet and Ianto reassuring Jack that he was all right and promising to call again before his final departure. After that short call, he could fall asleep again. Jack always had that soothing effect on him.

Three hours later Martha banged on his door, urging him to get dressed, so that they could have lunch together. They opted for the Chinese restaurant, and it proved a good choice – the food was delicious and the place not too crowded at this relatively early hour of the day. Then they returned to the hotel again, waiting for their lift.

Wanting to make a good first impression, Ianto slipped into a suit again – the pin-striped one with the waistcoat and the lapel badge that Jack always liked on him – with a pale blue shirt and a crimson tie. Martha appreciated the view.

“Jack always had a good taste when it came to his men,” she commented. “You look good enough to eat… but not too cute. This is a good choice.”

She, too, wore a suit with a silk blouse and looked supremely elegant in it. They were going to meet a general, true, but they were still civilians and thus ought to show their civilian best.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The headquarters of Stargate Command, situated under the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, doesn’t exactly leave Ianto in open-mouthed awe. Yes, it _is_ impressive, and the equipment sophisticated, but it’s a military base, no more and no less. For him, who worked in the fantastic labs and shining clean offices of Torchwood One at Canary Wharf, it isn’t such a big deal.

Nor does the fact that they are six hundred feet under the earth bother him particularly. The Hub, although it doesn’t lie quite so deep, is also an underground bunker – he’s used to work in such places.

To be perfectly honest, General Hank Landry doesn’t particularly impress him, either. For a man being in charge of such a crucial project (crucial for the continued existence of the planet in any case), he seems a bit soft, not all too bright, and way too self-important. Definitely without a chance to look good if compared with Sir Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart (commonly known as “The Brigadier”), the supreme commander of UNIT, with whom Ianto has met a few times while still with Torchwood One. Not to mention that the chief medical officer of the SGC is apparently his daughter. Talk about nepotism – even if their relationship doesn’t seem to be the best.

Colonel Caldwell, on the other hand, the commanding officer of the _Daedalus_ – the starship that would bring them to Atlantis – is a different matter. Now _there_ is a commanding presence if there ever was one. Not in Jack’s unconventional, gut instinct way, of course. Colonel Caldwell seems to be a stickler to the rules, but that doesn’t bother Ianto. He’s all for playing by the rules… well, _mostly_. Lisa was an isolated case. Even Jack knew that.

Colonel Carter, the previous leader to Atlantis, is also an impressive person. While looking like some pretty blonde in a uniform, she has the brains of the size of a planet – _and_ eleven years of off-world duty under her belt. She’s also a very friendly, fun-loving person, by the looks of her, not as full of herself as she might have a reason for. But again, in Ianto’s experience, those who _would_ have a reason to be full of themselves, usually aren’t. They don’t _need_ it.

“Why did they call her back from Atlantis?” Ianto asks Bates, who happens to sit next to him, in a low voice. “She seems more than capable of running an extraterrestrial base.”

“Oh, she is,” Bates nods in agreement. “She’s the best SGC ever had; with the possible exception of General O’Neill. She’s just kicked major Replicator ass in the Pegasus, preventing the frigging robots to run over the whole galaxy.”

“And they call them back?” Ianto shakes his head in bewilderment.

“She’s been sent there specifically to deal with the Replicator threat,” Bates explains. “She’s done the job; and now Atlantis can go back under civilian leadership, as it has been from the very beginning.”

“And what’s she gonna do here now?”

“I’m not sure,” Bates says slowly, “but I do have the feeling that they’re grooming her to take over SGC, eventually.”

And Ianto doesn’t doubt for a moment that Samantha Carter would do a supreme job leading the entire Stargate project.

Mr. Woolsey, on the other hand, the man selected to take over the leadership in Atlantis, is without the slightest doubt a bureaucrat. Thanks to UNIT influence, Ianto had the chance to study the man’s file and knows that Woolsey used to work for the NID and was considered a skilled and reliable investigator. Therefore, the sight of a middle-aged, middle-height, balding man with glasses and an almost manic expression on his animated face is something of a surprise. With his unimaginative suit and standard briefcase, he looks like a travelling agent, trying to sell vacuum cleaners.

But Ianto knows from experience that he must not let himself be fooled by that which is on the outside. And Woolsey’s file reveals an active, albeit somewhat narrow mind behind those glasses, and a surprisingly stout heart under the bland suit and the somewhat comical gestures. Yes, Richard Woolsey _is_ a bureaucrat, but a reliable and loyal one. He’s also likely to be quite predictable. Ianto can work with _that_ well enough.

The briefing goes on and on, dumping ungodly amounts of information on the newbies. A small, secluded part of Ianto’s mind takes notes of all the basic information for further use and filters out the unnecessary details automatically. It’s a mental technique he was taught at Torchwood One, when they detected his eidetic memory and wanted to prevent critical overload. It has served him well ever since. 

The Cardiff team always wondered how he could remember everything. They never guessed that this is simply a natural ability he was born with. Well, Jack might have, but he never asked directly, which is fine with Ianto. He prefers to work in the background and to always have a few aces up his sleeve.

The larger part of his mind contemplates the logistics of packing for an entire year for a different gladly. He’s been given the list about the basic necessities and some info about how much storage space he’s allowed on the _Daedalus_ and how much his stuff is allowed to weigh. Considering the sheer size of the ship, storage space doesn’t seem to be much.

Which confronts him with a serious problem, as one swallow of what counts as coffee at the SGC has made it adamantly clear for him that he needs to take a proper coffee machine with him to Atlantis. If the expedition members have lived on a… _brew_ similar to SGC-standard, it’s a miracle that there hasn’t been a full-blown mutiny yet. In any case, morale must have suffered greatly, and Ianto is determined to change _that_.

No, he won’t take the role of the office boy upon himself again, but people _deserve_ to have decent coffee. Especially people serving on dangerous outposts, where life and death of everyone can depend on split-second decisions.

If anyone, Ianto Jones ought to know it. He was the one who kept the grievously undermanned Torchwood Three base – and its immortal leader – running on caffeine for over two years, after all.

That still leaves him with the logistic problem of taking the coffee machine with him and still have some storage space left for his own personal belongings. Not that he’d own much, but he intends to take at least _some_ tokens that would make his quarters in a foreign galaxy make feel like home. Or at least like his little office in the Hub – which was more a home for him than the flat where he sometimes returned to sleep.

Under normal circumstances, this would be a bit of an obstacle, even for someone with his legendary organisatory talent. But when he realizes with the part of his mind that actually follows the briefing that he’s supposed to work with the _Daedalus_ ’ quartermaster on the storage problem, he relaxes again. He knows he’ll be able to get the coffee machine on board as part of the necessary equipment. Labelling things so that it would serve his purposes best is something he’s very good at it. Otherwise he’d never been able to smuggle Lisa and the cyber-conversation unit into the Hub’s basement, right under Jack’s nose. In hindsight, he’s not proud of _that_ – but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t use that talent again, if necessary.

Still following the briefing with one ear, he activates his palmtop, connects with the Internet and begins to search for the ideal coffee machine. The task isn’t an easy one, as the coffee maker will have to be larger than the one at Torchwood, but definitely the same brand – not one of those fully automated monstrosities that never allow a gourmet to brew his coffee quite to his own liking. Therefore, a more old-fashioned model is needed, but one that’s still modern enough to be compatible with the level of Earth technology used at the SGC, and consequently in Atlantis.

While checking the description and technical data of the individual models, Ianto calculates the right size needed to keep the command staff of Atlantis properly caffeinated and tries to think of several ways how to put the price – a rather hefty one – on the expedition budget. As much as he recognizes the need to provide the people who’re probably going to save his life on the daily basis with good coffee, he doesn’t see why it should make a serious dent on _his_ account.

It takes him almost an hour to locate the ideal model. He contacts the distributor, places the order, demands a quality certificate and return option in case the machine shouldn’t turn out to be all it promises, and asks for it to be sent to the Cheyenne Mountain. He finds it better than to have it delivered to his hotel room, where it could lead to all kinds of complications with the hotel management. Besides, he needs to make several test runs before he’d pack the thing to be transferred to the Pegasus galaxy.

He also orders a serious amount of vacuum-pressed coffee (beans would be preferable, but even he has to make allowances, and as he’s been repeatedly told, storage space is precious on a starship), a blend that’s ideal for espresso, latte _and_ cappuccino. He makes a mental note to put a permanent order on the _Daedalus_ ’ regular shopping list, for every time the ship pays Atlantis a routine visit. Between two deliveries, he’ll just have to deal with his resources economically; but that, too, is something he’s very good at.

He’s barely done with organizing the necessary caffeine influx of Atlantis (not to mention the _quality_ of if) when the ear he keeps on the briefing registers something that makes him grin in the inside. Mr. Woolsey wants a twelve-foot mahogany conference table to be shipped to Atlantis? As a _little piece_ of home? And _Ianto_ is supposed to clear this with the quartermaster? Well if _that_ isn’t convenient! Compared with _that_ request, nobody will even _notice_ the brand new coffee machine!

Finally, the breifing winds down to its inevitable end, and Ianto is grateful for the chance to rise from his seat. He hasn’t taken part in so many meetings, orientations, debriefings, introductions and whatnot since the destruction of Torchwood London, and he admits they’re more tiresome than he remembered. Nearly three years of informal independence at Torchwood Three, under Jack’s unorthodox leadership, have spoiled him in this area. 

But eventually, he’ll get used to it again. If anything, Ianto Jones is highly adaptable.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
On the next day, Ianto gets introduced to Master Sergeant Westerholm, the quartermaster of the _Daedalus_. The Master Sergeant turns out to be a female Marine, half a head taller – and definitely a lot better muscled – than him (even though he’s not exactly a scrawny man), and he carefully breaches the topic to her. He hopes fervently that the conference table is enough outrage to distract the quartermaster from the coffee machine; and he isn’t disappointed.

Westerholm makes a few derogative remarks about civilians leading semi-military outposts in general and about Mr. Woolsey in particular, elaborating that while Colonel Carter is an Air Force officer (which apparently is a lower life form compared with Marine officers), at least she is an _officer_ , and a smart one at that, and what a shame it is that she got called back on behalf of some incompetent paper-pusher. Actually, she calls the new Atlantis leader Weaselly; a fact that Ianto deliberately overhears.

After getting the frustration off her chest, however, Tracy Westerholm is surprisingly cooperative and eminently practical. She doesn’t even mention the coffee maker, and looking at the permanent order of ungodly amounts of coffee she only nods in satisfaction.

“It was about time someone thought of that,” she comments. “I thought they’d develop a healthy survival instinct a lot earlier.”

“What do you mean?” Ianto asks in surprise.

“The existence of Atlantis stands or falls on whether their head geek gets his regular caffeine fix or not,” Westerholm explains. “He’s a certified genius and accordingly… _complicated_ on a _good_ day. Without enough coffee, he becomes an animal – or so the other geeks say. He’s known to have rendered grown men with several doctorates to tears when on caffeine cold turkey.”

Ianto files away this vital part of information, and they discuss the logistics for a while. Then he’s called to the infirmary, where he’s subjected to the most thorough medical check-up of his life. Among other things, they check him for the ATA-gene; the one that provides access to Ancient technology. It would be a great advantage if he had the gene, as it would enable him to access Atlantis’ systems directly.

It turns out he doesn’t have a natural gene. But when they try the gene therapy on him, it ‘takes”, as they call it. He’ll never be able to deal with Ancient tech quite as easily as a natural gene carrier, but he’ll have access. As the personal assistant of Mr. Woolsey, that will put him into a much better position.

He slowly begins to realize that this isn’t just a weird dream – or some kind of virtual reality game, the likes Owen used to play on his computer while pretending to do some useful work on long, boring afternoons. He’s really going to do it. He’s going to go to _another galaxy_. On a _starship_.

He tries to keep his excitement hidden, to appear competent and controlled as he goes through the various phases of preparation. As if getting too excited could somehow ruin this unique chance, offered to him so unexpectedly. Like speaking out a birthday wish loudly. He won’t make that mistake.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The following days are spent in a blur. He’s got so much to organize – mostly on Mr. Woolsey’s behalf – so many people to meet that he’s having difficulties to put everything in proper order when making his hand-written diary entries. Sometimes he doesn’t even have time to meet Martha for dinner – but that’s okay, since she’s equally busy. They’ll catch up during the journey to Atlantis.

On some evenings, Jack calls him on his mobile phone. Tells him about how things are going on in Cardiff. Tells him about Rift spikes and Weevil activities; about his efforts to find replacements for Tosh and Owen… so far unsuccessfully. He jokes about having to hire PC Andy, if he doesn’t find anyone else; at least the young constable already knows how to handle Gwen. He tells hilarious stories about Gwen and Rhys’ family dramas that seem to be quite frequent lately.

Sometimes he even mentions missing Ianto, and Ianto knows he means it. But never, not once does he try to change Ianto’s mind about going to Atlantis, and Ianto is so grateful for _that_ he could cry.

Because the _Daedalus_ is ready for lift-off now, and he knows he couldn’t board her if Jack asked him to stay.


	5. Distant Shores

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit that I haven’t got the faintest idea whether hyperspace – or anything else, for that fact – could truly be seen by the naked eye from the bridge of the _Daedalus_. But I always imagined that if it can, it _has_ to be a beautiful sight – and I wanted to give Ianto something beautiful for a change. That poor boy deserves to have a little fun from time to time.
> 
> According to Stargate Wiki, Hermiod’s fate hasn’t been told for sure. Whether he committed suicide with the other Asgard or not, is a matter of interpretation. I decided against it, simply because I find him a wonderfully weird character and would hate to have lost him, so in this story, he’s still aboard the _Daedalus_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 05 – DISTANT SHORES**

Travelling aboard the _Daedalus_ is a strange experience. Having been beamed aboard was frightening and exhilarating at the same time – the mere _concept_ of it boggled his mind. It was too… _Star Trek_ for being entirely believable. Such things belong to the realm of science fiction, not to a person’s everyday life. Not in the twenty-first century at any rate.

Granted, he’s lived with the _knowledge_ about the existence of time-travel (TARDIS anyone?), Time Lords (in various incarnations) and Time Agents (both rouge and redeemed ones, one of which he even shagged for almost two years) since joining Torchwood London. But knowledge and reality are two very different things. And while Weevils, Abbadon, Daleks, resurrection gloves and whatever the Rift might spit out have trained him to take weirdness in his stride, standing on the bridge of the _Daedalus_ and watching the swirling colours of hyperspace around them is an experience that cannot be compared with _anything_ he’s seen before.

It fills his heart with a sense of wonder he thought to have lost a long time ago. He cannot get enough of it. His only regret is that Jack can’t share this with him.

Logically, he knows that Jack has probably seen greater wonders during the many journeys of his still-mysterious past. But that knowledge is in his head and does nothing to ease the yearning of his heart. He remembers what Suzie said to Gwen before her death – that there _has_ to be other stuff out there; the good stuff that never falls through the Rift, because Earth is so _dirty_ … and now he actually gets to see some of that good stuff, it seems.

Sure, there’ll be Wraith in the Pegasus galaxy; and perchance other dangers, too. He has read the mission reports, after all, and they’re rarely optimistic. But the path that leads there is shining with beauty, and it’s all _his_. This is a beauty no-one can take from him. Ever.

He cannot stand on the bridge all day, of course. Mr. Woolsey wants to analyse last year’s mission reports with him; to build a new strategy how to lead Atlantis in the future. Mr Woolsey has a very definite vision about how Atlantis ought to function – one Ianto not always agrees with, and he has the feeling that the old crew of the outpost won’t take it kindly, either. 

But he knows better than to start arguing with his boss right now. He understands that the only way Mr. Woolsey can work is by the book; the man has little to no field experience, has rarely been confronted with the harsh realities that seldom respect any rules. Hopefully, he’ll learn to unbend a little, given enough time. Just as Ianto will find creative ways to work around him whenever he’s unable – or unwilling - to bend.

Ianto has learned creativity from a master.

Thankfully, though, his duties aren’t so onerous (not _yet_ anyway) that he wouldn’t have enough time left to explore the _Daedalus_. Master Sergeant Westerholm must have passed a positive evaluation down the grapevine, cos the crew never objects his presence. He isn’t as instantly popular as Martha, but people accept him and even have a friendly chat with him wherever he appears, amazed and curious and just a little frightened sometimes. They’ve realized by now that he isn’t spying for Mr. Woolsey, for the IOA or whoever else – that he’s just excited about being there in the first place; and that’s a sentiment they all understand.

A sentiment they all share.

The journey to Atlantis takes almost three weeks, but Ianto doesn’t mind the delay. As unique as stepping through the Stargate might be (and he certainly hopes to be allowed to experience _that_ first hand eventually), he welcomes the chance to get gradually used to the thought of moving to another galaxy. This may no longer be the one-way ticket it was for the original expedition, but visiting a different _galaxy_ is still a concept that fills him with awe. 

And what makes it even better, this is mostly done thanks to good, old-fashioned human curiosity and resourcefulness. Granted, there _is_ some alien technology involved – without the help of the Asgard, the _Daedalus_ would still be just a dream – but the ones who _used_ that technology to build the starship are humans. They didn’t need some patronizing Time Lord in a blue police box to pick them up as passengers. They’ve built their own means and thus they can decide the course themselves… and _that_ is something Ianto finds more impressive than all the wonders one could experience as a mere passenger of the TARDIS.

Of course, the _Daedalus_ cannot be compared with the TARDIS. Nothing can. She’s just an amazing collection of sophisticated technology, without intelligence on her own; the most amazing tool mankind has built on their own (all right, with just a little outside help) but only a tool. And Ianto wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s man-made, and that’s what makes her so amazing.

Another completely new concept for him are the aliens; the ones allied to the SGC. For Torchwood, aliens always meant a threat; something to be fought, something the Earth had to be protected from. Well, the SGC has doubtlessly had its fair share of malevolent aliens, megalomaniac aliens, homicidal aliens, invasive aliens – or those who simply wanted to eat visiting SG-teams for dinner. But they also met those who’d be willing to make alliances and share knowledge (even though those are admittedly in the minority), and _that_ ’s an option Ianto has never heard of before,

It amazes him. Sometimes he goes down to Engineering for no other reason than just to watch Hermiod, the puppet-like Asgard engineer work. Despite everything he’s seen during his years with Torchwood – or even _because_ of those years – it amazes him to no end to see an alien work alongside humans. To be a close friend of a human, as Hermiod clearly is for Dr. Novak. That Hermiod has such a strong resemblance to the hypothetical Roswell aliens only makes him even more bewildered. After some mild irritation, Hermiod simply accepts his occasional presence and ignores him, which is fine for Ianto. He doesn’t want a conversation. He just wants to watch.

He barely sees Martha and the two former UNIT employees during the journey. The questions he wanted to ask about Jack’s past, about any secrets Martha might know, have to wait. Hopefully, there will be time later. Right now, Ianto has more urgent things to do.

He doesn’t try to socialize with the other newly recruited Atlantis personnel, either. He focuses on studying the personal files of the original expedition members, cos those will be the main obstacles for Mr. Woolsey. Ianto’s job is to serve as the mediator between them and the new administration, but he doesn’t intend to be Mr. Woolsey’s iron fist. He doesn’t intend to undermine Woolsey’s authority either, though – this is gonna be a delicate act of balance, and the more he knows about the parties involved, the better the chances that he’ll be able to smooth over a lot of things that would otherwise cause problems.

Anyone else might believe that Lt. Colonel Sheppard would be the most obvious source of future problems. But as he studies the man’s file, Ianto is sure he’ll be able to get along with the colonel well enough. Sheppard seems to have certain common traits with Jack: a laid-back, somewhat unorthodox commanding officer, with a definite hang to ignore rules in order to have the job done. With a fierce protectiveness towards his team, and a definite tendency to flirt with everything on two legs… as long as it’s female, supposedly, as the US armed forces have a somewhat antiquated set of rules when it comes to relationships. Especially same-gender ones.

Well, at least this will spare Ianto the suit remarks – not that he’s wearing a suit right now, and probably won’t be wearing one for a while.

When they took his measures for the new Atlantis uniform, he was greatly surprised to be asked if he wanted the Welsh flag patch on it or the Union Jack. He hadn’t expected that it could be an option at all, but they told him the chief medical officer of the original expedition used to wear the Scottish flag patch, and so all other UK citizens are now offered the choice. He chose the Welsh one, of course. Wearing a uniform still makes him a little uncomfortable – he’s not a military kind of bloke, despite the fact that he’s always liked Jack’s coat – but wearing the red dragon on his arm is heart-warming.

He realizes with surprise how mixed the original scientific crew of the expedition used to be. The scientists have come from every possible country, from Russia to Canada and from Denmark to Italy. And while the Americans tended to replace them with their own people after the first grievous losses, it’s still a fairly international contingent, led by ace Canadian scientist Dr. Rodney McKay – the same one whom Master Sergeant Westerholm described as a certified genius and a coffee addict.

Studying McKay’s file, Ianto tries to get an impression of the man who’s been crucial for the survival of the entire expedition for the last four years. Apparently, the head scientist is every bit as lacking at people skills as Mr. Woolsey himself. It’s going to be a real challenge to keep them from each other’s throats; but Ianto used to work for Yvonne Hartmann, so a little bit of megalomania won’t throw him off-kilter.

He finds the remark about McKay having destroyed almost an entire solar system due to his scientific arrogance but can’t understand the outrage. Yes, one scientist died, and that’s tragic, but he doesn’t find any sign of the system’s planets being inhabited, so he doesn’t really see what all the fuss is about.

There has been _one_ victim. Torchwood One’s arrogance has caused the deaths of _hundreds_. And while even one victim is too much when the reason is simple arrogance, Ianto finds that the Atlantis crowd seriously lacked perspective, having given McKay such a hard time about it.

He makes a mental note to provide the head scientist with moral support – and coffee.

The other personal files are every bit as conclusive, especially when read together with the mission reports. Using a Torchwood-issue personal palmtop that, hopefully, won’t be easy to break, even for the collective geniuses of Atlantis, Ianto begins to take meticulous notes about his future colleagues. Personal background, career, likes and dislikes, possible traumatic experiences while in Atlantis, medical history. He consciously avoids to burden his memory with trivia unless he believes it could prove important later.

His mind is a mental landscape not unlike his Archives. Everything has its proper place and proper category, and insignificant data is stored in little-used corners, ready to be called forth if necessary, but out of the way of daily business. He analyzes the new information and puts the bits to the corresponding places. The palmtop is only an aid, in case of an emergency. No matter how well his memory works, he isn’t protected against head injuries, brain infections or memory loss by default. Should anything like that happen to him, his successor would be able to access his notes. He’ll see that in that case the password gets revealed.

Having worked for Torchwood makes a person eminently practical.

Ianto studies the files of the dead expedition members as well, especially those of the original expedition, as they were the ones who’ve shaped the current face of the Atlantis society; made it what it’s now. Unlike Mr. Woolsey, Ianto understands that Atlantis is more than just a remote, although important outpost of mankind in a foreign galaxy. The people who’ve been there since day one have built a close-knit community during that fateful first year, while they didn’t have any real hope to get reconnected with Earth. They had no-one to turn for help to, just each other. Small wonder that a strong sense of… of _togetherness_ has developed; a bond even later additions to the crew had a hard time to be accepted by and made a part of.

It’s not unlike what they used to have at Torchwood Three – as opposed to Torchwood One – so yes, Ianto can relate. He isn’t sure Mr. Woolsey will be able to understand, though, so his skills as a mediator will probably be needed on a regular basis.

He wants to be prepared, so he turns to Agent Bates for help. Granted, Bates only spent one year on Atlantis, but it was the all-defining first year, the most formative one. He knows the original expedition members – few as they still are there – the Pegasus galaxy natives that played an important role for the expedition in that very first year, like the Athosians, the Genii, the Hoffans and so on. He knows the Wraith and what they are capable of. And he knows what _Atlantis_ is capable of.

But most importantly, he knows those expedition members who died in defence of Atlantis or in the process of unlocking her secrets. He knows about their influence and how it helped to shape Atlantis’ little community. Names like Dr. Elizabeth Weir, Dr. Peter Grodin, Dr. Carson Beckett, Dr. Brendan Gall, Dr. Dumais, Colonel Marshall Sumner, Lieutenant Aiden Ford, Sergeant Jamie Markham and all the others cease to be mere information, stored in some databank. They become _people_.

People who used to be crucially important for the expedition. People who’ve given _everything_ – including their lives – to save the city and those who inhabited it. The heroes of the first year, without whom there would be no Atlantis today, no adventure for the following groups, no chance for any further discoveries. Without whom Ianto himself wouldn’t be here today.

Ianto studies the file and the reports of the late Dr. Grodin with special care. His knowledge in computer sciences isn’t enough to understand more than perhaps one per cent of the Englishman’s scientific notices – for that, he’d require Tosh or someone else of her format – but that isn’t the interesting part for him anyway. 

Dr. Grodin, aside from his scientific research, was also the personal aide of Dr. Weir, the expedition’s _civilian_ leader – which is basically the same job Ianto has been hired for. And, if his reports are any indication, he was an observant man… and a rather sociable one. His little remarks about his colleagues are going to be a great help for Ianto to deal with the same people.

As he highlights the remarks about the people who’re still alive – some of whom Dr. Grodin apparently considered as personal friends – Ianto has the eerie feeling as if the man would be sitting in the spare seat of his quarters, watching him in tolerant amusement… and with just a tad of concern.

“Don’t worry, doc,” Ianto promises him in thought. “I’ll take good care of them. They deserve it; and I’m good at taking care of people.”

And then there’s Dr. Carson Beckett. The chief medical officer of the original expedition, the man who’s discovered – and _synthesized_ – the ATA gene. The man who’s managed to create a retrovirus that would turn Wraith into human, even if only temporarily. The man who was killed in a freak accident, buried and mourned two years ago… just to turn up unexpectedly again, a year later. The reports don’t give any more explanation, which is weird, to say the least. Only a remark that everything else falls under medical confidentiality.

Ianto, however, wants to understand more about the whole thing – what happened, why it happened, and if there’ll be a solution for the problem – so he turns to Martha for help, knowing that – as Beckett’s future successor – she’d have access to confidential data that wouldn’t be accessible for him. As expected, she’s also studied the Beckett case thoroughly, but there’s very little she can actually tell about it.

“So, let’s set it straight,” Ianto asks, a little bewildered. “Is he now dead or isn’t?”

“Yes… and no,” Martha says. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh, no!” Ianto groans, mental images of an undead Owen popping up in his mind. “What’s it with you doctors that you can’t _stay_ dead? Or is it an infectious zombification that only affects medical personnel?”

Martha doesn’t really appreciate the lame effort of a joke. “Dr. Beckett hasn’t been reanimated,” she explains. “He’s been cloned, a few months before his dead. What they’ve got down in the infirmary is the clone.”

So it isn’t Beckett, not exactly. Ianto doesn’t understand much about the concept of cloning – especially if alien technology is involved – but he knows that, in theory, it is possible. According to the SGC database, the Asgard used to procreate that way for a very long time.

The information also reveals the fact, though, that the cloning process isn’t entirely safe. Even the Asgard method couldn’t quite iron out all the flaws, and slow degeneration was a very real danger for their entire species. The human body, with its individual flaws, offers even more chances for grievous mistakes. Which, according to Martha, is the very reason why Dr. Beckett is lying in an Ancient cryostasis chamber somewhere in the infirmary of Atlantis. 

Ianto wonders whether the man would ever get the chance to be revived. He hopes so. Beckets seems to be a decent bloke… even though some of his medical experiments uncomfortably remind Ianto of Dr. Frankenstein. But desperate times often lead to desperate measures; everyone who ever worked for Torchwood knows that.

“So, who cloned him in the first place and why?” he asks, because now he really needs to get the whole picture.

“I assume you’ve read about his research combining Wraith and human D.N.A?” Martha replies with a question of her own. Ianto nods.

“I know he successfully turned a Wraith into a human being… for a while anyway. After some time, the converted Wraith began to turn back to what it used to be.”

“Well, not entirely,” Martha corrects. “For some reason that is still unclear, this first test subject didn’t undergo full reversion. He remained a Wraith/human hybrid, cast out by both sides. Understandably enough, he wasn’t exactly happy about that fact, and began his own experiments to create more of his kind.”

Ianto remembers another report he’s read and nods again. “The huge, murderous bugs.”

“Apparently, that was an early phase, and one that misfired,” Martha says. “In any case, this hybrid, whom the Atlantis people call ‘Michael’, took a genetic sample from the… the original Dr. Beckett while he was captured on the planet where they left all the converted Wraith. These then most likely used their Wraith telepathic abilities to summon a hive ship that took them away from the planet, but dumped this ‘Michael’ somewhere else, not wanting to do anything with him. There he first cloned Dr. Beckett, and then continued his experiments – hell, he even abducted the whole Athosian tribe to experiment on the people!”

“But the others got him out, didn’t they?” Ianto asks, remembering the very tight-lipped report about saving a man who turned out to be Dr. Beckett from a Wraith prison.

“By accident,” Martha explains. “They were looking for Teyla Emmagan, abducted by this ‘Michael’, and stumbled over Dr. Beckett as a side effect. They had no idea about his existence at all.”

“Must have been quite the shock for everywhere,” Ianto comments slowly, remembering the first time he saw Jack coming back from death. He knows it’s fundamentally different, but seeing a dead man walking couldn’t be easy for the Atlantis crew, either.

Martha nods. ”I suppose so; they were at his funeral service, after all. But even worse must have been when they discovered that this other Beckett was on borrowed time, too.”

“What exactly is wrong with him?” Ianto asks.

“Dr. Keller found evidence of necrosis in several of his internal organs,” Martha answers. “His cells weren’t renewing fast enough to sustain tissue function. Presumably a complication due to the fact he’s a clone. Dr. Keller has given him a course of treatment to try to stimulate cell growth but it was a bit like trying to find a cure for old age.”

“I don’t understand,” Ianto says, frowning. “He has been in captivity for how long? Two years? If his cells were deteriorating so quickly, shouldn’t he have been long dead by the time they found him?”

“Theoretically… yes,” Martha admits. “But his medical file says that ‘Michael’ gave him a weekly injection of something that effectively kept his cells from degeneration. The only problem is, neither Keller nor the doctors at the SGC have a clue what it might have been. They’ve been working on it for weeks, but...” she trails off and shrugs.

“So, is there any hope at all that he might be revived?” Ianto asks.

“I’d say yes,” Martha replies, after a moment of consideration. “Whatever the solution is, it must be hidden somewhere in all that Wraith data the Atlantis team has retrieved from ‘Michael’s lab. Of course, it won’t be easy to locate the correct data. I only hope Dr. Keller will be able to give me the right direction before she leaves for Earth.”

“She’s been recalled?” Ianto asks in surprise. “Why on Earth would they recall her?”

“Well, since I’ll be taking over for her, she’ll be working on medical research at the SGC; or in Area 51,” Martha explains.

“But won’t that put you at serious disadvantage?” Ianto asks. “She’s worked as the chief medical officer of Atlantis for almost two years; she ought to share her experience with you, if you’re supposed to do an efficient job.”

Martha shrugs. “Apparently, the SGC feels a bit… stepped on their collective toes by UNIT’s demand that I should be given the post of the chief medical officer. They weren’t particularly cooperative in that matter. I think they hope I’ll fail.”

“Well, they can wait a long time for _that_ to happen,” Ianto comments. After what they’ve gone through together, he’s got the outmost trust in Martha’s abilities.

Martha nods, but before she could answer, Agent Bates knocks on the door and peeks in.

“We’re about to drop out of hyperspace,” he says. “If you want a spectacular bird’s eye view of Atlantis, you should come to the bridge, _now_.

 _That_ ’s not something either of them would want to miss. Ianto and Martha shut their palmtops down and follow Agent Bates to the bridge of the _Daedalus_ , to have their first glimpse of the mysterious flying city that’s going to be both their home and their workplace for the next year.


	6. Interlude in Cardiff #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there’s a time switch back to past tense for this particular chapter. Yes, it’s been done on purpose. I have my reasons, believe it or not. ;)
> 
> Sara Lloyd is the blonde SOCO woman Detective Swanson is talking to in the very first scene of “They Keep Killing Suzie”, so she’s actually a canon character. I just gave her a name.
> 
> A defunct wall fountain as described here really does exist in a small tourist office I prefer. The office is run by a young lady; I thought the decoration would match Emma’s style, too.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **INTERLUDE IN CARDIFF #1**

Three and a half weeks after Ianto had left Torchwood Three – and _him_ , as a result – Captain Jack Harkness was getting increasingly frustrated. With the _Daedalus_ having left Earth a couple of weeks ago, his last connection – the infrequent phone calls – to Ianto was broken, and would most likely stay that way for the best part of the next year. There might be the one or other video message, should Ianto feel like sending any, but they’d arrive with significant delay, and would probably lack any vital information, due to the fact that they’d be censored by the I.O.A. Ianto knew better than give away anything of importance, even in personal matters.

Jack hated that thought. He hated being apart from Ianto, even though he _did_ understand why Ianto felt the need to leave him… well, sort of. Now all ends were open again, and even though he _hoped_ Ianto would return to him – to Torchwood – in the end, he couldn’t be sure of it. And he hated it.

He hated the fact that he wouldn’t be part of Ianto’s life for a year, at the very least. Hated the possibility that Ianto might find his new job so much more promising, so much more fulfilling than just being the do-it-all boy for Torchwood Three. Even if the fringe benefits included sharing the bed of his boss. He hated the off chance that Ianto might find someone else, someone who’d grow old with him and die as humans were supposed to do.

Something that Jack, immortal freak as he was, could never do.

He always knew he might lose Ianto eventually. If not due to some freak accident or murderous aliens, then to old age. He never thought, however, that Ianto would leave him voluntarily. And that had shaken him pretty badly. As Martha had said, he _really_ did have abandonment issues – who could blame him, after all he’d been through with the Doctor?

Gwen wasn’t being much help, unfortunately. Her marriage with Rhys was slowly deteriorating, and she spent all her free time (and then some in which she’d be supposed to _work_ ) either at home or on the phone, trying to mend things with him somehow – not that it seemed to work all too well. She’d apparently lied to Rhys once too often, and the world’s longest-suffering Welshman was no longer taking her shit, choosing to hang out with his mates instead of listening to the whining of his wife. Jack didn’t blame him. Gwen in a whining mode could make even the Weevils howl and cover in the furthest corner of their cells.

Distraction made her even more useless than usual. After having gotten Jack killed twice (because she hadn’t been able to pay attention during Weevil hunting), Jack ordered her back to the Hub, to do the paperwork that had piled up frighteningly since Ianto’s departure. Quite frankly, the whole Hub had been a mess since Ianto’s departure. But Gwen wasn’t even particularly useful for that, and spitting out the completely undrinkable brew she’d served him under the name of coffee (while starting to make go-go eyes at him again), Jack switched to Starbuck's with regret. Simultaneously, he realized that he couldn’t put out the hiring of new personnel any longer. Torchwood Three was virtually incapacitated, with him being the only one who could actually _do_ any work.

At least in that area, he turned out unexpectedly lucky. He’d worked on a shared case with Detective Swanson again – and it went surprisingly well, he had to admit – when she pointed out one of the crime scene investigators for him, who had apparently grown bored in her lab and wanted to do something with a little more action. Sara Lloyd was a tall, blonde woman in her early thirties, had degrees in biochemistry and computer sciences _and_ was fairly decent with a gun, so Jack found Swanson’s suggestion a good one. 

Having talked through the various tasks that needed to be done in the Hub, they agreed that Lloyd would do an eclectic mix of Tosh and Owen’s previous tasks, although that still left them in the need of a medic. Still, at least they could start to function semi-normally again, and Lloyd was deeply impressed by the equipment she got to work with, although the Weevils freaked her out a little.

The next step was to find someone to run the tourist shop and provide the staff with coffee, as they couldn’t hope to find _one_ person who’d be able to take over _all_ of Ianto’s previous duties. Finding the shopkeeper and coffee girl proved surprisingly easy, though, when Emma Cowell, the young girl who’d fallen through the Rift with Owen’s Diane and that poor John Ellis, reappeared in Cardiff one day. Working for a London fashion house hadn’t turned out as shiny and exciting as she’d hoped for, and so she’d come back to the only people she knew in this century: Torchwood.

She was devastated to hear about Tosh and Owen’s departure, and it saddened her to learn that Ianto, too, had left. But she was truly happy to see Gwen again, and when Jack offered her part of Ianto’s former job, she gladly accepted. It was an ideal arrangement for both sides. She already knew what Torchwood was, so there was no need to explain her all that came with it. They already knew she was from a different time, so she didn’t need to pretend with them. Plus, she had Jack here, who shared her out-of-time existence, just from the other end of the scale.

After only a week, Jack realized what a gain she was for the team. The tourists who came to the office loved her, and she brewed surprisingly decent coffee. Not as fantastic one as Ianto had, nobody could do that, but her coffee was several magnitudes better than what Starbuck's could offer, and she was slowly but steadily making it even better. She also took over such simple tasks as inventory when it came to food, stationery and stuff like that, got the dry cleaning done, the bills paid… and generating an overall domestic air that Jack found unexpectedly wholesome.

That still left them lacking a medic and at least one proper field agent, and Jack began seriously considering Andy Davidson, Gwen’s former partner. Granted, he was just a beat cop, but so had been Gwen, and at least Andy seemed to be a lot more level-headed and capable of following orders without starting an obnoxious discussion every time. The few times they had worked with the police, Jack had come to value Andy as a solid, reliable person. The rest could be taught him as they went on.

The only thing that worried him was the piece of information that Andy had used to have a crush on Gwen… perhaps still had. Rhys (who’d provided Jack with said information) couldn’t tell for sure, as Gwen was still pissed off at Andy for not coming to their wedding – not that it would have been such a great loss for him, considering what the wedding had turned out like, with alien pregnancies and homicidal Nostrovites and dead – or Retconned – wedding guests. Still, Gwen kept grudges and refused to even talk about Andy.

That was a serious obstacle for Jack’s plan to hire Andy. On the one hand, he didn’t want a repeat of the Gwen/Owen office affair – not that Rhys would care any longer, but if Andy still had feelings for Gwen, having used for comfort sex and then being dropped like a hot potato was not something he deserved. On the other hand, any more distraction and Gwen would stop even imitating that she was working, and again, that wouldn’t serve anyone. So Jack postponed the plan for a while, although he didn’t reject it entirely.

He was still pondering about other possibilities when Mickey Smith unexpectedly appeared in the tourist shop, asking to speak with him. To say that it was a surprise would have been the understatement of the century.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It was a fairly uneventful morning, Rift activity practically nonexistent, and Emma decided to use the rare but welcome off time to rearrange the tourist shop to a more welcome environment. Not that Ianto hadn’t kept the place spotless and supremely organized, but Emma found that it lacked the ‘female touch’ and wanted to change that. The decorative wall fountain – the work of a local stonewright and really catchy with the satyr head serving as the fountainhead, even though no actual water came from it – had just been installed, and she was about to arrange the potpourri of dried flowers in its basin, when the front door opened and a handsome young black man in his early thirties walked into the shop.

“Is this Torchwood?” he asked. “I’m looking for Captain Jack Harkness.”

Emma gave him her best receptionist smile – she’d almost perfected it to Ianto’s degree already – looking convincingly apologetic.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir,” she replied politely. “This is just a tourist information shop, and I’m the only one working here.”

“I don’t think so,” the young man said. “I was told a Welsh guy named Yantoe or something like that was running this place. You don’t look like a Welsh guy to me, love.”

“Mr. Jones has quit his job here a couple of weeks ago,” Emma told him. “I’m the shop girl now, and I can assure you that…”

The ringing of the old-fashioned phone on the counter interrupted her. She apologized and picked up the receiver.

“It’s all right, Emma,” Jack told her; he’d watched them through the CCTV and recognized Mickey at once, of course. “He’s an old friend of mine and knows what we are. You can let him in.”

“I understand, sir,” Emma was sincerely apologetic now. “I didn’t know that,” she hung up and turned back to the visitor. “My apologies, sir. As I already said, I’m new here and don’t know all of Mr. Harkness’s… associates. He asks you to go down to him. If you’d like to enter then?”

She pushed the button under the counter, opening the secret door to the Hub. The visitor seemed startled for a moment when the front door snapped shut, but he broke into a broad grin as soon as he saw Jack stepping through the hidden doorway.

“Jack Harkness!" he declared. “It’s good to see you, man!”

“And you, Mickey,” Jack replied, hugging him tightly. Then he looked at Emma, smiling; it wasn’t one of those falsely bright smiles he usually showed, but a small, more genuine one. “Emma, this is Mickey Smith. We’ve… travelled together for a while. Mickey, meet Miss Emma Cowell, our new receptionist.”

“My pleasure, miss,” Mickey nodded to Emma, but was a little confused. “You told me that Yantoe bloke would run the shop for you. What happened to him?”

“It’s a long story,” Jack took his elbow and navigated him towards the secret door. “Let’s go to my office. I’ll tell you everything later.”

They went down to the Hub, and Mickey seemed duly impressed by their base, which, coming from someone who’d known Torchwood One, was actually a compliment. Jack took him directly to his office, forestalling Gwen’s not-so-subtle efforts to join them by dropping several folders onto her desk, telling her they needed to be filed immediately. Lloyd, bless her workaholic soul, barely looked up from her workstation, where she was trying to run one of Tosh’s half-finished programmes.

“Not that I wouldn’t be glad to see you,” Jack said, after Emma had brought them coffee and left them alone again, “but I must admit that I’m a little surprised. I thought you remained in that parallel dimension, to take care of your Gran... well, the alternate version of her, that is.”

“Oh, I did,” Mickey replied. “But shortly thereafter my Gran died peacefully in her mansion, and since Rose and I had already broken up by then, there was nothing to keep me there any longer. So I decided to follow you and Martha back to my own reality.”

“Why haven’t you told us?” Jack asked accusingly. “We from the End of the World Survivors Club ought to stick together.”

Mickey shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortably.

“The truth is: I wanted a new start,” he admitted. “A clean cut from all that alien invasion, end of the world, gloom and doom sci-fi stuff. You know, a normal life. A normal, boring job, a girlfriend who doesn’t run off on a whim with the first time-travelling alien in a phone box; perhaps a family and kids, eventually…” he trailed off.

Jack nodded in understanding. “It didn’t quite work out, did it?”

“Nah,” Mickey said. “I guess, once you get in touch with these things, it changes you for the rest of your life. It changes you too much. You can’t get back to who you were before, no matter what. Things will be different. _You_ will be different.”

“That’s right, I suppose,” Jack said. “So, what brings you to us?”

Mickey shrugged. “I need a job,” he replied simply. “I called Martha, hoping she might find something suitable for me with UNIT – but she was leaving already. She suggested I call you, though, and since I wanted to see this place anyway, I just took the first train and came here,” he paused for a moment. “So, what do you say? Can you have any use of someone like me?”

“Actually,” Jack said, barely able to conceal his excitement,” I’ve been looking for someone _exactly_ like you for quite a while. We haven’t had a technical expert for more than two years. Since Suzie’s death, to be more accurate.”

Mickey gave him a doubtful look. “I don’t know, man,” he said. “I mean, I’m no technical expert, not really… I’m not even an engineer of any kind. Let’s face it; I’m just a car mechanic.”

“But a good one,” Jack replied. “And you’ve had ample experience with alien tech… or haven’t you infiltrated Torchwood One and managed to work there as one of their researchers, without raising any suspicions? You’re not an idiot, Mickey, no matter what the Doctor might have told you – and what you don’t know yet, you can learn later.”

“From you?” Mickey asked, half-mockingly.

Jack shrugged. “Well, I know a great deal about alien tech. It kinda comes with the job if you’re a Time Agent… a former one in my case. Anyway, Torchwood is all about learning by experience – we never know what the Rift’s gonna spit out next – and that’s something you’ve already practiced a lot, haven’t you?”

“True,” Mickey admitted. “I’m really grateful for the chance, man. I mean, I could go back and work in some garage again if I absolutely had to, but…”

“...but it wouldn’t be enough,” Jack finished for him. “Not anymore. Not after all you've seen and done while travelling with the Doctor. Trust me, I know what it’s like.”

“To be honest,” Mickey hesitated for a moment, then he continued anyway, “unlike you, I don’t necessarily worship the earth the Doctor’s walking on. Or the deck plates of the TARDIS… whatever. You know what I mean. I know that in the grand scheme of things he’s a hero who’s ended wars and saved hundreds of lives and all that. But on the personal level he’s the guy who took my girlfriend from me, who turned my whole life upside down and treated me like shit during the whole process.”

“He’s just… not very impressed with mankind as a whole,” Jack said.

“Well, tough shit,” Mickey replied. “He should leave us alone, then. I was perfectly happy living in ignorance of the so-called wonders of the universe. All we ever got were the murderous aliens and homicidal robots anyway. Without his interference, I’d probably be married to Rose now, living a simple and content life…”

“… and I could just die like any normal human being,” Jack added.

Mickey nodded. “Yeah, man. And now, neither of us can go back to the life we’ve had before. We’ve both become freaks… outsiders… don’t belong anywhere.”

“Perhaps,” Jack said. “But at least we’re not completely alone. We’ve formed a little family of freaks here.”

Mickey gave the main area of the Hub below a cursory glance. “Your co-workers seem normal enough to me.”

“Some of them actually are,” Jack agreed. “Sara Lloyd, the tall blonde at the computer, is a new recruit. She came from SOCO and had nothing to do with any paranormal activities before. Emma, on the other hand… Well, she boarded a plane to London in 1951 and a few hours later she ended up in Cardiff, in 2008.”

Mickey nodded. “Yeah, she does seem a little… different. Old-fashioned would be perhaps a better word.”

“Which is only natural, considering that she’s from a very different time,” Jack said. “The other two who’d come with her… they couldn’t cope. The pilot fled back into the Rift, and the old businessman committed suicide. Emma has adapted admirably, but she’s every bit as lost as we are nonetheless.”

“What about the brunette with the cow eyes?” Mickey asked, nodding in the direction of Gwen, who was still glaring at them over the files piling up on her desk, clearly insulted that she’d been shut out.

Jack sighed. “Oh, her… that was my mistake.”

“Some mistake it had to be,” Mickey commented. “Why haven’t you corrected it?”

“She stumbled upon us by accident, and I miscalculated the dosage of Retcon,” Jack explained. “When her memories returned, I hired her cos I thought her skills as a police officer would be useful for us. Turns out I was wrong but, well, it’s too late now.”

“In other words, you loved the way she made go-go eyes at you, hoped to get in her pants and forgot to check her out thoroughly before hiring her, due to testosterone poisoning,” Mickey said, grinning like a loon.

“Something like that, yeah,” Jack admitted ruefully.

“And? Is she at least a good shag?” Mickey asked.

“It never came to that,” Jack replied. “She came to us complete with a boyfriend, and while she would have been more than willing – she jumped Owen’s bones within two months, after all – I didn’t want to ruin her chance for a normal life.”

Mickey shook his head. “Jack, I only spent a short time with Torchwood, but even I know that it isn’t compatible with normal life. It’s an illusion.”

“There used to be Torchwood members who actually managed to have a life,” Jack protested.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Really? Any names you’d remember off the top of your head?”

“Harriet Derbyshire,” Jack replied promptly. “She was a Torchwood member during World War I. Managed to have a family, aside from a degree in physics, which was a rare thing for a woman at that time.”

“And she lived how long exactly?” Mickey asked.

“She died in action in 1919, at the age of twenty-six,” Jack said, a bit reluctantly.

“So she doesn’t really count, does she?” Mickey pointed out. “You just can’t have a normal life within Torchwood, and the sooner Little Miss Doe-Eye learns that, the better for her. You didn’t really need to take that nonexistent chance into consideration.”

“Perhaps,” Jack allowed. “But in the meantime, I got involved with Ianto, so…”

“And since when has that stopped you?” Mickey asked sarcastically.

Jack gave him a wounded look. “Hey! I’d like you to know that I never cheated on Ianto! I’m not going to die, I’ve got all the time in the world – I can afford to be monogamous for a few decades.”

“So?” Mickey asked. “Why isn’t he here then? Why has he left you?”

“He hasn’t… not exactly,” Jack played with his coffee mug, turning it around and around on his desk. “We’re… on a hiatus, you could say. For one year.”

“And are you gonna get together after that year again?” Mickey asked doubtfully. The Jack Harkness he used to know hadn’t been the kind of man to pine after a lost lover.

“I’m not sure,” Jack sighed. “I hope so, but it might not happen. He’s twenty-six, Mickey, and he’d spent practically all his adult life in Torchwood. He wanted to see something _else_ , to build a life for himself. To see if he’s still _capable_ of living outside Torchwood at all.”

“And if he is? What happens then?”

“Then I’ll be happy for him,” Jack said quietly. “It may break my heart, but I’d lose him anyway, sooner or later. If he _can_ find a good life, what right do I have to stand in his way? Unlike me, he only has this one life – he must make the best of it.”

Mickey thought about that for a moment.

“And again, you’ll be left behind,” he finally said. “That’s a lonely existence, man!”

Jack nodded. “In a way, I’m much like the Doctor. I’ve part-time companions, but they all leave me after a time, cos they have no other choice. They’re mortal. I’m not. It’s that simple. I know Rose thought she’d do me a favour, reviving me, but in truth, she cursed me to eternal solitude.”

“Do you blame her for that?” Mickey asked.

“Sometimes,” Jack admitted. “Sometimes I feel like a hamster, running on its little wheel for eternity. It’s maddening. But most of the time, I can still appreciate the things I see, the people I meet, the work I do. And as long as I can do that, my… existence is bearable,” he paused, and then gave Mickey one of those trademark, too-bright smiles of his. “Come on now. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the staff, and we’re gonna order a bit of pizza. I can’t believe we’re finally back to be five people again – even without having a medic yet!”

Mickey laughed, shook his head and followed him down to the main area of the Hub to meet the others.


	7. Atlantis, Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, evil time shift again. I suppose you’ve got used to them by now. ;)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**PART 06 – ATLANTIS, DAY ONE**

Ianto Jones’ first impression of Atlantis is that of a Gothic cathedral, with her ethereal spires, elongated stained glass windows, spidery, crystalline structures spreading out all over a layout that vaguely resembles of a five-pointed star. While he can see – and admire – her as a floating city, it’s hard to imagine that she’s also a starship of immense dimensions; one that can cross the enormous distance between two galaxies in mere days.

Nonetheless, those are the facts, and Ianto is trained to accept the facts, even if they’re beyond his imagination. Having worked for Torchwood can do that to a person.

They reach Atlantis at the local equivalent of dawn, and it’s a breath-taking sight. The sun of the planet has just begun to rise above the horizon, thus the twin crescent moons, both in the waning phase, are still clearly visible at the other end of the sky-sphere, which is a pale purple in that area, while turning ruddy where the sun is about to rise. In front of that incredible canvas, Atlantis is floating on the deep blue-grey ocean, glittering like a jewel crated of pure silver and crystal in the reddish light of dawn. 

The sight is so beautiful that it almost physically hurts. There’s nothing Ianto has ever seen before that could be compared with it – not even the gleaming tunnel of hyperspace that has brought him here. He stars at it in stunned awe, unaware of the tears rolling down his face.

He’s spared the disorientation of the Asgard transporter beam, as the _Daedalus_ is actually landing on the East Pier. Which, as Major Kevin Marks, the senior bridge officer of the ship and a veteran of several space battles explains him, is one of the long extensions of Atlantis, regularly used as a landing zone.

“After three weeks in hyperspace, Colonel Caldwell prefers to give her a thorough check-out, and it’s better done in the drydock… or the local equivalent of it,” Marks explains. “You should go with Agent Bates directly to the Gate Room now, Mr. Jones. He’ll introduce you to the key personnel of Atlantis, until Mr. Woolsey decides to make his appearance.”

Mr. Woolsey has apparently chosen to use the transporter, which everyone (including Ianto and, if the sharp irony in his voice is any indication, Major Marks) finds unnecessary and pretentious. But it is his choice, and he’s entitled to be a _goit_ , as Martha comments, revealing her secret love for _Red Dwarf_. Ianto wonders how long it will take for her to start call Mr. Woolsey a _smeghead_ but knows better than to ask.

Besides, it’s such a British thing, not many would probably understand.

Ianto and Martha go with Bates; the others will follow eventually, but the two of them are command staff, so they need to get to the Gate Room immediately, to be present when Mr. Woolsey ‘makes his appearance’, as Major Marks has put it. 

Bates suggests they take the transporters and leads them to a small room, the slide doors of which open automatically. As they step in, part of the back wall opens, just at the right height for them to see it comfortably, and the map of the city appears. Bates touches the centre of the map as soon as the panel begins to glow; the doors slide closed, then open again, almost immediately.

“We’re there,” Bates announces. “The Gate Room is right on the left.”

“Well, this is… practical,” Ianto comments, as they step out of the little chamber to a corridor that doesn’t look very different from the one they’ve started from. “The transfer only took a few seconds. Are there such chambers all over the city? I mean, the ship?”

Bates nods. “You’d best download the map of the transporter network to your PDA,” he says. “There’s one in every transport chamber, of course – that’s how you navigate – but having one handy all the time can help you find your way nonetheless. It’s a very big city, and only parts of it have been thoroughly mapped.”

He leads them to what seems just another section of the corridor. But as they approach, tall, stained glass door panels rotate into a vertical position, allowing them entrance into the command and control centre of Atlantis – and it’s amazing. 

There’s none of the Spartan practicality of the SGC control room under the Cheyenne Mountain. The sheer size of the place is astonishing, especially if one keeps in mind that it’s actually the bridge of a starship. The design is curved, elegant, ethereal – once again, Ianto has to think of Gothic cathedrals, and the stained glass windows only strengthen the likeness. A wide staircase rises in front of them, leading to other levels and balconies, all designed the same way.

The Stargate, too, is different from the one he was allowed a glimpse at back on Earth. It seems more… modern, somehow, which is weird, considering that it’s ten thousand years old, give or take a century. The symbols on the great ring are glittering blue, and the rim of it disappears beneath the floor of the room.

The control room is a level higher, and the technicians working on various consoles, all of them facing the Gate Room, rise as the newcomers enter – with the exception of a man in science uniform, whom Ianto identifies as Dr. Rodney McKay. He looks older than on his file photo, but the face is unmistakable. Plus, he’s wearing the Canadian flag patch.

Bates escorts Ianto and Martha up a fling of steps that leads to the office overlooking the Gate Room. At the same moment, an officer with the rank insignia of an Air Force lieutenant colonel and the name tag _Sheppard_ on his breast pocket walks in.

“Bates!” he says in honest delight, shaking the I.O.A. agent’s hand. “I heard they’d send you back to us, as head of _civilian_ security. As stupid as I find the idea of civilian security to begin with, I’m glad I.O.A. at least had the common sense to choose _you_ for the position.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m glad to be back,” Bates replies in crisp military manner. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Then he gestures at the newcomers. “If I may… Colonel Sheppard, the new chief medical officer of Atlantis, Dr. Martha Jones. And Mr. Ianto Jones, Mr. Woolsey’s personal assistant and aide.”

“Jones and Jones, eh?” Colonel Sheppard says, giving them a somewhat queer look. “Brother and sister, by any chance?”

The scientist Ianto assumes would be Dr. McKay rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“Yeah, Colonel, because Jones is such a rare and exotic surname!” He clearly doesn’t find it funny – or is simply too exhausted.

“Twins, actually,” Ianto says with a bland smile. “Identical ones, as I’m sure you can tell by the sight of us, Colonel.”

McKay snorts, now in honest amusement, and Colonel Sheppard raises two fingers to his forehead in a half-salute, acknowledging the hit graciously enough. Then he shakes hands with them, too. “John Sheppard. The charming guy over there, the one with the acute lack of any sense of humour, is Rodney McKay. You’ll get used to him, eventually.”

“Not finding _your_ infantile sense of humour the least bit funny doesn’t mean I don’t have any,” McKay counters, without stopping his work to great the newcomers – although he does wave in their vague direction.

“His people skills are somewhat lacking, too,” Sheppard tells them in a conspiratory manner. McKay looks up at _that_ and gives him a patented death glare.

“Excuse me if I’m not jumping at the chance to give welcome hugs to people I’m gonna see every single day for the next _year_ anyway,” he says snidely. “Never mind that I’m in the middle of recalibrating our long-range sensors, which, by the way, might save us from being taken unaware by, oh, half a dozen hive ships or so! I’ll make sure to set my priorities more properly next time,” and with that, he turns back to his console, ignoring everything else again.

Including the snickering technicians all around him.

One of said technicians – a sandy-haired young sergeant, wearing a Canadian flag patch like McKay himself – looks up at Sheppard.

“Sir, the _Daedalus_ has finished docking procedures. Mr. Woolsey’s beaming over now,” he reports.

Sheppard rolls his eyes, his lack of enthusiasm apparent, and with a weary sigh, even McKay drags himself to his feat, just as the Asgard transporter beam deposits Richard Woolsey onto the balcony of the office. Woolsey has found time to change and is now wearing an Atlantis command uniform in which he looks every bit as out of place as Ianto feels. They’re just not _made_ to wear a uniform, neither of them.

In the meantime Sheppard’s managed to overcome his displeasure (or, at least, to hide the more obvious part of it). He walks forward to shake hands with their new leader.

“Mr Woolsey,” he says with a somewhat forced joviality. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Woolsey looks at the crew in the control room and clears his throat nervously… then he attempts what he presumes is an authoritative stance. “Well, then...“ he tries again, then hesitates for several seconds, clearly unable to think of anything more to say. Finally, he looks at Sheppard. “I think I’ll start by going over copies of all your latest reports,” then turning to Rodney, he adds. “Yours as well, Doctor.”

McKay stares at him as if wondering whether their new boss has suffered a head injury or something similar. “What, right now?”

Woolsey shrugs. “I’ve been out of touch on the _Daedalus_ for three weeks,” he says. “I’d like to be brought up to speed as quickly as possible. We can have a full briefing tomorrow morning.”

He moves to leave, addressing Ianto as he goes. “Please have the rest of my things sent directly to my quarters.”

“Yes, sir,” Ianto replies dutifully, looking after him as he leaves.

So does Colonel Sheppard, in fact. Only that his eyes are somewhat less friendly. “It’s a nice speech,” he comments. “Very inspiring.”

Ianto sighs, “Trust me, this is the lesser evil. Full briefing will be a bitch in the morning.”

“I know,” Sheppard replies sourly. “We’ve dealt with Mr. Woolsey before. It was always pure joy. You better get his stuff delivered, though. He can be… cranky if he doesn’t get his wish right away.”

“I’ll do my best, Colonel,” Ianto replies. “If you could direct me to the person who’s responsible for such things here, that is.”

Sheppard gives him another one of those queer looks. Then he touches his headset and asks someone called Major Lorne to the control room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto’s first official task on Atlantis – well, after having gotten Mr. Woolsey’s things delivered to the man’s quarters – is to hand out all the stuff the expedition members have ordered from Earth. So, as soon as the _Daedalus_ has beamed down all the various packages, he’s standing at the entrance of the largest storage room he’s seen in his entire life (and he _has_ seen his fair share of those), makings call on his headset and ticking off the names of the people who’ve already fetched their ordered goods on his clipboard. It’s a fairly menial task, but he doesn’t mind it, as it gives him a chance to meet a lot of people. With his eidetic memory it means that he’ll be able to recognize them afterwards.

He finds it eerie how easy it is to recognize the original expedition members; easy for _him_ , that is. There are shockingly few of them left, but they all bear that special look that Jack calls “the thousand year stare”. The look that says they’ve seen too much, too unprepared-for. That they’ve survived somehow, but even after four years, that first shock still sits too deeply in their bones to get rid of it completely.

It’s a look he is achingly familiar with. A look he sees in the mirror every morning. But it’s still not easy to see it on other faces.

There is Staff Sergeant Adam Stackhouse, in his early thirties, married to an Athosian woman – one of the very few _not_ taken by Michael, the malevolent human/Wraith hybrid. Still mourning his best friend, the third member of their Athosian-style clan marriage, who’s been dead for over three years, but whose absence still hasn’t stopped hurting him. Ianto doesn’t ask what _else_ the late Sergeant Markham used to be for Stackhouse – he’s dealing with the US military and their antiquated rules here – but he can make an educated guess. It isn’t exactly rocket science; Stackhouse’s obvious pain as he looks at their firstborn – _Markham_ ’s son, born after the father’s death – speaks volumes. 

And after all those years, Stackhouse still have to conceal his true feelings. Somehow it doesn’t seem right.

There is Dr. Julia Simpson, a seemingly plain woman with a freckled face and shoulder-length, sand-coloured hair, who’s a brilliant engineer and tough as nails. Her personal file says she’s only been at home for two short visits in the last four years; one of those occasions being her father’s funeral. She’s ordered cigarettes and a specific brand of cosmetic articles, and unexpectedly breaks down crying when she’s handed a large box of Belgian chocolate and a hand-written letter from someone named Dr. Kavanagh.

Ianto offers her a cup of his best espresso from his own thermos (he’s tested the new coffee machine aboard the _Daedalus_ – someone had to). She accepts it gratefully and explains, while her tears are falling into the cup, that Dr. Kavanagh was a colleague of hers – a jerk in many areas, but great to work with, and that she’s had no-one to fight and argue with since he left. Again, Ianto wonders if that was truly all that has been there between the two of them, but again, he doesn’t ask. It isn’t his business how a handful of people used to try making a life for themselves during what at that time seemed a mission of no return. He knows all too well what it means to be desperately alone.

And then there’s Dr. Miko Kusanagi, their resident computer genius, who’s taken over a great deal of the late Dr. Grodin’s research aside from her own, and who hasn’t been back to Earth since day one. Ianto has wondered about the reason and looked up her file, hoping to find answers. He found out that she’s the third daughter of a _very_ traditional, old-fashioned Japanese family who’s been cast out by her father when she refused to marry someone her parents have selected for her and chose to study instead. 

Her parents never spoke to her again, although her siblings sometimes send her messages and small gifts. She’s brilliant, with two doctorates and a scientific mind as bright as a thousand burning suns, but her family is unable to appreciate that. All they can see is the fact that she’s turned her back on tradition, and that’s something they can never forgive.

Ianto is very curious about her and is a little shocked when she finally arrives to pick up the various tea tins and other small items she’s ordered. He expected someone like Tosh; someone who, while carrying a great burden, would be strong and confident nonetheless. The fragile, round-faced woman with the large glasses who enters the storage room is anything but. She’s like a wounded bird that somehow still manages to fly on broken wings; her thin shoulders hunched and her smile polite but tremulous, as if she’d expect to be hurt any moment, with or without reason. It’s a heartbreaking sight.

Ianto bows and greets her in carefully-phrased Japanese, using the expressions of greatest respect. He isn’t very good at the formal speech, what little he’s learned from Tosh, and after her death in online courses as a homage to her, is more everyday stuff, but he tries his best. This little woman has spent four years here without a break and survived. What’s more, she helped to keep this flying city together, against impossible odds. She _deserves_ respect.

Her reaction certainly isn’t what he’d have expected. It seems he’ll have to count on female members of the original expedition breaking down sobbing in his presence, for some unknown reason.

He knows it isn’t exactly Japanese custom, but he can’t watch her breakdown without trying to offer some support; she seems so much more vulnerable than Dr. Simpson… or Tosh. So he takes her in his arms, letting her cry on his shoulder – well, on his chest anyway, as she’s too small to actually _reach_ his shoulder to cry on. He’s absurdly grateful for the Atlantis uniform he’s so disliked at first. None of his suits would survive such treatment on a regular basis, and as he heard the Pegasus galaxy ain’t that big on dry cleaner service.

Finally, her quiet sobs die down entirely, and now she’s mortally embarrassed.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “It’s just… I haven’t heard my mother tongue for so long. Even those who understand it have taken to speak English all the time.”

“Do they?” Ianto is surprised first, then he things about it for a moment and understands. “Well, I reckon it makes things easier with so many people of different origins if everyone speaks the same language.”

She smiles at him shyly. “I never thought to find someone who’d care to learn Japanese if they don’t have to. People just expect us to learn English.”

“I’m afraid my Japanese isn’t much, “Ianto admits ruefully. “I’ve begun to learn a little for the sake of a good friend, but she’s dead now, and without proper practice…” he shrugs and trails off.

Dr. Kusanagi seems to hesitate, like someone who’s afraid to be rejected, having had her fair share of rejections already. Then she brings up some courage and smiles at him nervously.

“If we can find time… I mean, if you want to… we can practice from time to time… and share tea, perhaps? I was taught to perform the proper tea ceremony when I was young…”

Ianto isn’t a passionate tea drinker – because really, who in their right mind would drink tea when there’s _coffee_ available? But he’s drunk the one or other cup with Tosh and recognizes the honour he’s been offered. Not many young people can perform the traditional tea ceremony in these days, and for a complete stranger to be invited to it is a rare thing indeed.

“It would be my pleasure, Miko-san,” he replies with a formal bow. She gives a small, genuine smile, and in that fleeting moment she reminds him so much of Tosh it almost breaks his heart.

“I’ll contact you when you’ve settled down,” she murmurs demurely and leaves.

Ianto looks after her for a moment, Atlantis just having become a little more like home for him. Then he ticks her name off his list and calls in Dr. Bryce, who’s waiting in the corridor already. Despite her English-sounding name, the oceanologist turns out to be an exotic-looking Indian woman, with an eerie resemblance to Suzie. It’s not a likeness of features – Dr. Bryce is older, more mature and definitely more beautiful – rather one of colouring and carriage. Still, it gives Ianto a really weird sense of _déja vu_.

He shakes his head, pulls himself together and goes on with the task at his hands. The sooner the storage room has emptied, the earlier can he leave to seek out his own quarters, which, according to Major Lorne, are situated next to Mr. Woolsey’s. Joy, joy, joy, Ianto thinks, while handing Dr. Bryce her Indian spices, tea tins and bags of special rice she’s requested, so that she can cook something that tastes like home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto’s departure leaves Martha alone with the core of the old Atlantis crew. They’re all eyeing her in suspicion, perhaps even with a little ill-veiled hostility, and it makes her bristle a bit. It’s not her fault, after all, that UNIT has pressed for more British presence on Atlantis; and while she’s excited to be here, she really is, she isn’t willing to take the blame for the loss of a valued colleague.

“Look, guys,” she says calmly, “I know you aren’t exactly happy to have me here, but let me set something straight: this wasn’t my idea. Yes, I jumped at the opportunity when it was offered to me – who wouldn’t? But I didn’t do any lobbying or whatever you apparently suspect I’ve done. It was a political deal, from which I admittedly benefit, but it wasn’t my doing. So, do you think we can ignore the fact that you don’t want me here and behave as professionals?”

“To be perfectly honest, doc, it’s the _professional_ part that makes me slightly concerned,” Sheppard drawls. “At least Dr. Keller has served here for a few months before taking over for Beckett. You, on the other hand… they’ve just dropped you onto our laps, out of the blue; no explanations, no personal file, no nothing. You ought to admit that’s a bit… unsettling.”

“My personal file’s classified, even for regular UNIT personnel,” Martha says with a hint of apology in her voice. “Only the Brigadier and his aides are privy to it. But let me assure you that I’ve faced – and treated and _fought_ – aliens before, and have worked with alien technology.”

Her confidence doesn’t seem to reassure the Atlantis staff, though.

“Have you ever been off-world before?” McKay demands.

“Yes,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Although my journeys were more… specific than Stargate missions. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you more about it.”

“What about weapons training?” Sheppard asks. “Are you qualified to use a gun? Because you might need it here, in order to survive. The Marines can’t be everywhere at the same time, and it’s dangerous out here.”

Martha grins. “Last year I helped to avert an alien invasion. Does that qualify me? But yeah, I can fire a gun if I have to, and I can even hit my target. So does Ianto, as a matter of fact. We Brits have got our own secret projects, Colonel, and we’ve been both knee-deep in those for the last couple of years. You don’t need to worry about us.”

“I prefer to be the judge of that myself,” Sheppard returns in a deceivingly mild voice. Martha shrugs.

“Fine with me. Well, since my predecessor doesn’t seem to be here, can someone show me the way to the infirmary? I’d like to introduce myself.”

The locals still aren’t very forthcoming, and in the end, it’s Bates who makes a move again. “I’ll show you there, Dr. Jones.”

As they leave, Martha can hear McKay’s acerbic comment, apparently directed at Sheppard.

“I know you haven’t run into any space babes lately, Colonel, but could you, you know, _not_ salivate quite so much when a pretty girl gets near you?”

And Sheppard’s flippant reply. “No need to get envious, Rodney. I’m sure she’ll learn to admire your genius in open-mouthed awe… just like we all do.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” McKay returns. “Well, if you’re done playing the dashing leader of Atlantis’ military, could you perhaps get out of my hair? Some of us have a lot of _work_ to do here.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Bates and Martha find Dr. Jennifer Keller in the Infirmary, working at a computer. There’s another woman with her – older, bronze-skinned, with shoulder-length hair of a strangely orange hue – who’s carrying a baby on her arm. At the sight of Bates, her jewelled dark eyes grow cold. There’s obviously no love lost between these two, Martha realizes, and wonders what the reason might be.

“Sergeant Bates,” the woman says coldly. “I was surprised to hear that you’d return to us, after all those years.”

“Not the most pleasant of surprises, I suppose,” Bates replies wryly, “but yeah, I’m here again… and back to my old job. Only as a civilian, this time.”

“I doubt that it has changed your attitude much,” the woman says icily.

Bates inclines his head in agreement. The gesture is a bit mocking but not entirely without respect. These two must have had quite the story between them.

“You’re right, Miss Emmagan,” he says. “It hasn’t.”

There’s a short, unpleasant silence, and Martha makes a mental note to have Ianto figure out what’s happened between them. Right now, though, she just wants to be introduced and made familiar with her future workplace.

“If you could stop your glaring contest for a moment, interesting though it is, we might be able to get done with the formalities first,” she says; then she turns to the woman sitting at the computer. “Dr. Keller, I presume? I’m Martha Jones. _Doctor_ Martha Jones, UNIT’s head exobiologist.”

To her credit, Jennifer Keller manages a brave, almost-friendly smile and shakes her hand. “Dr. Jennifer Keller. And this is Teyla Emmagan, representing the Athosian people on Atlantis. And, of course, her son Torren – currently our youngest patient.”

That surprises Martha a little. “I didn’t know there were children on Atlantis… side from the son of the late Sergeant Markham, that is.”

“Even after four years, there aren’t many,” Keller admits. “Now that we have the chance to return to Earth, eventually, people don’t want to set children into a potential war zone. The Athosians used to have quite a few, but…” she trails off, with a guilty glance in Teyla’s direction.

Martha nods. “I’ve read the reports. My sincerest condolences, Miss Emmagan.”

“Thank you,” the Athosian woman replies, “although I was luckier than most, myself. My child was unharmed, and even his father is himself once again, in every way.”

“Was he one of those turned into hybrids?” Martha asks with a barely suppressed shiver.

Teyla nods serenely. “He was. But the process has been reverted, thanks to Dr. Keller, and we hope to reunite the remaining families, soon.”

Keller shakes her head. “It wasn’t me that cured Kanaan and the other hybrids; it was Doctor Beckett’s retrovirus. And you could thank him in person if I could just get my head around all this Wraith medical data.”

Martha walks around to stand beside her as she looks at the intricate alien text on her screen.

“Do you believe the answer’s in there somewhere?” she asks. She’s studied the data – in English translation, as far as they could be translated – and found the problem incredibly complex… albeit not entirely unsolvable.

Keller shrugs, a little uncertainly. “Well, we know he was giving Carson a serum to keep his internal organs from deteriorating and I _think_ I might have found the formula. I just need to be sure.”

“At least we know he’s safe for the moment,” Teyla says encouragingly. Then she looks down at the baby as he begins to fret quietly and frowns.

“Technically, yeah,” Keller agrees. “I just hate the thought of him being stuck in that box.”

“Why?” Martha asks. “As far as I’m informed, it’s completely safe. It has preserved General O’Neill for quite some time, and he left it unharmed, as soon as a cure for his… condition was found.”

“Mmm,” Teyla agrees, rocking the baby to calm him down again.

Keller smiles. “You know, Rodney – that is, Dr. McKay,” she adds for Martha’s sake, “– goes to visit him. Stands in front of the stasis pod and tells him all the latest news.”

“Really?” Martha has only known the irritating scientist for half an hour, but has a hard time to believe it.

“Mmm-hmm,” Keller grins. “I walked in on him once by accident and he pretended like he was checking the system or something.”

“Men and their inability to express their feelings,” Martha says, while the other two are laughing. But she isn’t thinking of Dr. McKay. She’s thinking of a time-travelling alien whose name she’s never learned… and of Jack and Ianto and their strange non-relationship, or whatever it might be, and wonders whether they are going to find a way back together.

“He surprises me sometimes,” Keller smiles at her screen with a fond expression on her face, meaning Dr. McKay, of course. Martha gets the suspicion that there might be something else than mere surprise on the young doctor’s side; she only hopes that it isn’t entirely one-sided. She’s already seen enough heartbreak around herself for a lifetime.

In this very moment, Teyla’s baby begins to cry, and she sighs. “Well, this is me, once again being recalled to duty.”

“Have a nice walk!” Keller replies, then she explains to Martha. “Apparently, the baby is only willing to stay quiet when she moves around with him.”

Martha smiles. “My older sister used to be like that. Mum always says she’d have been able to run a marathon after Tish finally dropped the habit.”

Teyla is at the door already when she turns back and smiles at Keller.

“Don’t worry, Jennifer,” she says encouragingly. “I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

She leaves the infirmary, the baby placed on her hip. Keller wipes her eye tiredly and gets back to work. Following an impulse, Martha lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Look, doctor,” she says quietly, “I know it’s hard for you to be replaced, especially right now, given the circumstances. Believe me, I haven’t _asked_ for this job. I was perfectly happy with my old one. But since I’m already here, I think you should explain me what exactly you’re looking for. My Wraith still sucks, but I’d really like to help… if I can.”

Keller looks up into her face with just a touch of doubt. “You said you’re an exobiologist?” she asks. Martha nods. “A good one?”

Martha grins and shrugs. “Well, I’m said to be _the_ authority in the UK when it comes to extraterrestrial life, but if that’s enough…?”

“We’ll see,” Dr. Keller says. “Fetch yourself a chair, I’ll explain you what the whole issue is about. Two sets of eyes see more than just one.”

Martha pulls up a chair, and the two of them concentrate on the problem of being back a valued colleague to life. For the first time since boarding the _Daedalus_ , Martha has the feeling that her new assignment might actually work out.


	8. Building Bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do use a few rewritten lines of the original episode here. Obviously. However, the context is a very different one as you’ll see. And yes, I have messed up SGA timeline just a teeny bit. But this is an AU.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 07 – BUILDING BRIDGES**

In the next morning Ianto will sit at the conference table with all the important people, which is a definite improvement, compared with his usual status at his previous workplaces. But again, he’s an important staff member now. In fact, he’s the head of Mr. Woolsey’s staff, even if said staff is a fairly small one. The Atlantis uniform still makes him feel slightly… well, not exactly _himself_ , although wearing the Welsh flag patch does make him feel more patriotic than he’s felt for a long time. But he doesn’t want to irritate the old expedition members just yet with being out-of-the-line clothing-wise. 

He’ll find the chance to slip back into his suits later. For starters he’ll just sit here, observing, making mental notes – and even written ones – for further reference. Studying the people for whom he’ll be responsible for the following year, just as he used to be responsible for Jack, Suzie, Tosh, Owen… even Gwen-bloody-Cooper, despite her best efforts to get killed.

Since Agent Bates (who seems supremely content to be back in the Atlantis uniform, even if only as a civilian) has given him a crash course on essential Atlantis personnel during the three-week-journey from Earth, identifying the individual people won’t be all that hard, even though the names have a bit got mumbled at the first introduction. He’s met more people on his first day at the new job than ever before. Even while he worked for Torchwood London, it took weeks to meet the most important staff. Here, he has the feeling that he’s been already introduced to just about everyone.

Colonel Sheppard seems to have the same flirtatious tendencies as Jack indeed, the same winning grin… just without Jack’s charms. He must have been considered handsome a few years ago, even though he sooo isn’t Ianto’s type, but his face is deeply lined now – way too deeply for his actual age – and there’s a lingering hardness in his features that wasn’t there on the older photos. It gives him a certain likeness to Sylvester Stallone – which, in Ianto’s estimate, isn’t a good look for him. It’s likely that the Pegasus galaxy has the same unfortunate tendency to break people prematurely as Torchwood does.

The two head scientists are said to breathe coffee like other people breathe air, and Ianto makes a mental note to find out their personal preferences as soon as he can. He knows his scientists; they need to be taken care of, and taking care of people is something Ianto does exceedingly well. He’ll quietly go to the second-in-command of the science department, the wild-haired little man with the glasses and the funny accent, to ask about McKay’s needs. Second-in-commands usually get along well with each other, often better than their bosses.

That particular thought reminds him to seek out with his eyes Colonel Sheppard’s XO, a certain Major Lorne; the same one who’s helped him to get Mr. Woolsey’s baggage delivered to his quarters on the previous day. Lorne is a simple, open-faced man with a broad chest, short-cropped, greying dark hair and clear, grey eyes. His file says he likes to paint in his spare time, which surprises Ianto at first – until he realizes that people here tend to have some semblance of private life, unlike he had at Torchwood. In any case, Major Lorne seems to be an easy-going, friendly bloke, and Ianto puts keeping good contacts with him on his to-do list.

The current chief medical officer, the one whose place Martha is supposed to take over, appears awfully young and nervous, as if she’d be constantly overwhelmed by the demands of her job. Not the best thing at a permanently endangered outpost where a level head and split-second decisions are required. She seems nice enough, even pretty in a bland, harmless way, but Ianto wouldn’t like to put his life in her hands, child prodigy or not. As much as he sometimes hated Owen for being such an irritating jerk, at least he could always count on the irascible doctor’s competence. Dr. Keller might be highly talented, but Ianto just can’t feel that competence in her.

The only people _not_ wearing the local uniform are the two Pegasus galaxy natives. Teyla Emmagan, slim and nimble and lethal like a Japanese katana, impresses the living daylight out of Ianto. She radiates an inner strength he hasn’t encountered before. Martha does have the promise of something similar in her, but in Teyla, it’s fully developed, and she can use it as a lethal weapon; of that Ianto is absolutely certain.

Ronon Dex, one of the handful survivors of a murdered planet, is built like a brick shithouse and has something vaguely Tarzan-like in his appearance. But Ianto is an observant man and can detect the intelligence in those dark, attentive eyes and makes a mental note never to cross Ronon’s way. One does not piss off a force of nature; not if one likes his limbs arranged in their natural way. Nonetheless, he looks forward to get to know the man better.

The others are still but a name to each face he’s seen so far. But he’ll have a year to get more familiar with them. And having tea with Dr. Kusanagi might be helpful to learn more about the other residents. Ianto makes a note in his calendar to contact her at the first convenient time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When Ianto arrives to the conference room, Teyla is already sitting at Mr. Woolsey grand new wooden table. Ronon Dex walks in together with Ianto and looks at the table with a slight shake of his shaggy head before sitting down. He clearly isn’t impressed. Ianto doesn’t blame the man. He isn’t impressed, either, but he keeps his opinion to himself for the time being.

Doctors McKay and Keller are at the side of the room as the young woman helps herself to some coffee… and makes a sour face at the taste. She drinks it anyway, obviously in dire need of something to keep her awake. McKay notices it, too, and becomes instantly concerned, which, given his reputation, is a bit surprising.

“Did you get _any_ sleep last night?” he asks.

She looks up at him with a tired yet teasing smile. “Do I really look that bad?”

“Uh, no, no, of course not,” McKay replied hurriedly. “That’s not what I meant.” he gestures at his face, indicating her own, in a pitiful attempt to get out of the hole he’s dug himself into. “‘Cause, really, it’s a lovely...”

Ianto and Martha, who’s already taken her seat, exchange meaningful looks. Martha mouths _later_ to Ianto, and he nods. They’ll have time to discuss their new colleagues at dinner.

“I don’t get it,” Ronon Dex interrupts the small talk in his most likely customary bluntness. “Why did they send this Woolsey person to take over Atlantis?” his dark eyes glare at Ianto challengingly. “I thought Colonel Carter was doing a good job.”

“I agree,” Teyla is a lot more polite, but there can be no doubt that she agrees with him. “We defeated the Replicators; we thwarted Michael’s plans; and the Wraith are in a state of disarray. All of this happened while she was leader of Atlantis.”

“That’s the problem,” Colonel Sheppard comments, walking in and taking a seat.

Teyla frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Sheppard gives Ianto a shrewd look. “Care to explain, Mr. Jones?”

Ianto nods. “Well, as far as I’m informed, Colonel Carter has become a victim of her own success. Now that the threat level is down, the I.O.A. is gonna jump at the chance to put a civilian back in command.”

“It’s not just that,” McKay says. “I mean, Sam didn’t exactly stick to protocol.”

“Neither did Weir,” Dex reminds him, and Ianto quietly smiles, remembering someone else who didn’t usually stuck to protocol and saved the world several times due to his unorthodox methods.

“Right,” McKay says sourly. “So for four years they’ve been waiting to get someone in there who’ll finally do things _their_ way.”

“Yeah, well, I still don’t get it,” Dex growls.

Dr. Keller turns to Sheppard with an anxious look on her tired face. “Colonel, when you were in the future and you learned all those things that were gonna happen, wasn’t this one of them, Woolsey taking over?”

“Well, the circumstances were different,” Sheppard replies evasively.

“Still, it is a little unsettling,” Keller insist. “I mean, maybe it’s harder to change the course of events than we thought.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” McKay makes an impatient little wave of his hand. “I mean, the fact that Sheppard’s here makes all the difference, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Martha says quietly. “Interdimensional travel has a lot more tricks than one would think – the margin for errors is a very narrow one.”

McKay turns to her, seat and all, with an incredulous expression on his mobile face. “What would you know about that?” he demands. “That’s hard science, based on maths, not some voodoo like you do in your infirmary.”

The others give him disapproving, albeit unsurprised glares. Apparently, his low opinion about medical science is something everyone is familiar with. Well, everyone _else_.

“Remember me to order you a new set of needles for that voodoo doll,” Ianto says to Martha in a low voice. She grins at him, but he can see that she’s already planning her vengeance. Dr. Keller just rolls her eyes in McKay’s direction.

“Woolsey wasn’t the weirdest thing about that timeline,” Sheppard says thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?” Keller asks, her curiosity piqued.

Sheppard glances between her and McKay, and for some reason, he seems uncomfortable. As if he’s already regretted having mentioned the whole thing. “Never mind.”

McKay and Keller look at each other nervously, and Martha feels her earlier suspicions strengthen. There’s definitely something going on between these two, which would also explain McKay’s reaction to her – Martha’s – arrival. He doesn’t seem to realize that the attraction is mutual, though. Ianto, however, apparently does, because he looks from the two clueless lovebirds to Martha and smiles. That’s another thing they’ll probably discuss at dinner.

Right now, however, Mr. Woolsey walks in and looks around expectantly, as if he’d be counting the present staff members in his head. Perhaps he does.

“Well, I see everyone’s here,” he drops a folder onto the table as he sits down at the head of the table, all self-important. “Let’s get started.” 

In the background, the conference room doors begin to close. Woolsey looks round at them thoughtfully for a moment, and Ianto wonders what might be on his mind. A second later, though, that look vanishes; he opens his folder and looks at the first file in it.

“First of all, I’d like to congratulate all of you on the success you’ve had dismantling what’s left of Michael’s organisation,” he begins.

“Except one thing,” Ronon Dex growls. “We haven’t found him yet.”

Woolsey frowns. “Well, he was on the cruiser you destroyed in orbit around...” he looks at his notes “... M2S-445.”

Martha grimaces at the unimaginative planet designation; she’s the kind of person who’d do better with names. Ianto, however, likes the code system. It’s clear, it’s practical, and besides, he likes his numbers. He can remember them better than most people, too. They make him easier to find his way among mission reports. So yeah, he’s all for the current system, even though he’s probably the only newcomer who is.

“There’s a chance he may have made it off the ship,” Sheppard says in the meantime, meaning the Wraith/human hybrid, of course.

“Right,” Woolsey counters sarcastically. “You’re referring to this statement given by one of Michael’s ex-mercenaries claiming to have seen him alive recently.”

“That’s what he said,” Ronon Dex states.

“This is one unsubstantiated report from a highly unreliable source,” Woolsey replies.

McKay rolls his eyes in a rather demonstrative manner. “Well, _someone_ stole our jumper off that ship.”

“I thought you needed Ancient DNA to pilot one of those,” Woolsey says, furrowing his brows.

McKay shakes his head. “Not necessarily. We’ve developed a gene therapy that works... some of the time.”

Ianto still doesn’t understand how _that_ would make a half-Wraith capable of using Ancient technology but refrains from asking for the time being. He’ll ask Martha later, when she’s become more familiar with the local procedures. Right now, he needs to watch the discussion carefully; he needs to map the lines along which the power play within the command staff is being played.

Teyla is clearly not happy about the possibility of giving up the pursuit of Michael. Considering what happened to her tribe, it’s more than understandable.

“He is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people,” she insists. “If there is even a chance that he is still alive, we must continue the search.”

Woolsey, however, isn’t all that understanding.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t devote the resources of this base to the never-ending pursuit of a single individual across an entire galaxy,” he declares. “Even if I knew for a fact he were still alive, I still wouldn’t authorise it – unless you have some new, credible evidence as to his whereabouts.” He pauses and looks at Sheppard in askance. “Do you?”

“No,” Sheppard admits reluctantly.

“Then, for the time being, I shall consider the matter closed,” Woolsey shuts the file and opens another one. “As to these prisoner hybrids, I understand they’re being held in a camp on the mainland?”

Teyla’s face darkens in anger and Ianto winces. Talking about the surviving Athosians in this manner won’t win any plus points for Woolsey – and not by Teyla alone. How can someone be so… _daft_? He needs these people to run Atlantis, while these people very obviously don’t need him. Ianto considers several ways he could tell Mr. Woolsey not to saw on the branch on which he’s sitting but none of those seem very promising.

“That’s right,” Sheppard acknowledges, keeping his temper under control with visible effort. Woolsey doesn’t seem to realize that. He turns to Keller instead. 

“And how is their rehabilitation progressing?” he inquires. Keller is staring down at her coffee cup, lost in thought. Woolsey frowns, irritated. “Doctor?” At his considerably raised voice, Keller finally looks up, startled.

“Um, right. Uh, well, um, we’ve had some success using a slightly modified version of the original retrovirus that created Michael in the first place,” she explains. “It weeds out the Wraith DNA and allows them to resume their original human form over time.”

“Without any lasting ill effects?” Woolsey doesn’t seem reassured, but again, he rarely does. He’s one of the most pessimistic people Ianto has ever met – and that is counting in even Owen.

“None that we’ve detected so far, no,” Keller replies. She seems strangely distracted for some reason, as if her mind were elsewhere.

“Many have already completed the treatment,” Teyla intervenes smoothly; and then, giving Mr. Woolsey an intense look, she adds. “They’re wondering when they might be released.”

Woolsey waves it off nonchalantly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“These people are _victims_ , Mr Woolsey,” Teyla’s eyes are darkening in anger, and Ianto briefly wonders whether Woolsey has any idea how thin the ice is he’s walking on.

Apparently not, as he manages to say something very stupid and very callous next. “Maybe so, but until very recently they were also enemy combatants.”

Ianto has a bitter taste in his mouth. He understands Teyla completely. Wasn’t it his desperate hope for months that the unfinished conversion can be undone and Lisa brought back to a normal, human life? Wouldn’t he have done just about everything to reach that goal? Apparently, the medical staff of Atlantis _has_ worked a miracle and turned those people back to humans. It’s more than understandable that rehabilitating the victims is their main goal – and that they don’t take Woolsey’s reaction kindly.

“Fine,” McKay says sarcastically. “Well, then, we’ll just keep them there forever.”

“No,” Woolsey returns sharply. “We’ll keep them there until I’m satisfied that they can be trusted.”

Teyla stares at him with the intense look of a hunting predator before zooming in on its prey. “And who tells me that _we_ can trust _you_ , Mr. Woolsey?” she asks in a low voice. “As far as I can see, you don’t care about the best interests of my people at all. You only wish not to be bothered by them at all. You come here from a foreign galaxy, have very little experience with what is going on here, and you want to decide about the fate of _my_ people? Don’t you think you’re a little over-estimating your competence?”

“Not at all,” Woolsey replies. “I’m the leader of this outpost – if you don’t like how things are done here, you can leave any time.”

At first everyone listens in shock, then Teyla rises from the table. “I’m considering it,” she says. “But you should realize that _if_ I leave, I won’t be leaving alone. Some people you consider yours are married to Athosians… are you asking them to give up on their families? And what’s more, do you expect them to do so?”

She replaces her chair at the table a little more forcefully than necessary and leaves. After a moment of hesitation, Ronon Dex stands and follows him, shooting Woolsey a disgusted glare above his heavy shoulder on his way out.

Woolsey seems fairly agitated by their action. “Is this how you maintain discipline, Colonel?” he asks Sheppard accusingly.

Sheppard shrugs. “They aren’t military. They aren’t even Earth citizens. We’ve survived for so long because of their cooperation and invaluable help. If you want to alienate them, so go on. It’ll be your funeral.”

Woolsey opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, unable to give any coherent answer. Ianto sees the need to interfere and clears his throat.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Woolsey… I’ll talk to Miss Emmagan and Mr. Dex to smooth things over. I believe it’ll be better if you don’t deal with them directly. You just… don’t seem to hit off at once.”

Woolsey stares at him in suspicion for a moment. Ianto smiles at him beatifically. Sheppard suddenly finds something very interesting on the tabletop right in front of him; his shoulders are shaking ever so slightly. Finally, Woolsey ends the staring match and shrugs.

“Fine with me. Perhaps you can bring them to reason,” he says, then he lays the folder to the side and opens a new one. “Now, regarding the situation with our friend in the stasis pod,” he looks at Dr. Keller again, his eyes cold and somewhat unfriendly. “You seem to have been giving a significant amount of attention to this lately.”

Keller becomes defensive at once. “Well, once we got our hands on Michael’s medical research, I thought I should make it a priority to look for a solution.”

“And have you found one?” Woolsey demands. Ianto sees Martha roll her eyes and has a hard time _not_ to do the same. As if medical research would be that simple!

“Maybe,” Dr. Keller says uncertainly. “We found a serum that – in lab tests at least – seems to be capable of stabilising the clone cells.”

“So what’s the problem?” Woolsey asks impatiently.

“Carson was near death when we put him in that stasis chamber,” Keller reminds him. “I don’t wanna take him out until I know for sure. Unfortunately, lab tests can only do so much.”

“But that problem is never going to go away, is it?” Woolsey presses on. “If you’ve reached the limit of what your research can tell you, then you need to make a decision: either proceed, or put the matter aside and get back to your regular duty. Right?”

Keller nods at him nervously. It’s obvious that she disagrees, but she doesn’t have the right arguments to change his mind. He nods back, closes the file and opens the next one, ready to go on with the meeting. However, he’s made his plans without counting Martha in, and Ianto smiles quietly, seeing her dark eyes glitter in anger.

“Theoretically, you’re right, Mr. Woolsey,” Martha intervenes. “Ethically, however, it’s not acceptable to experiment on a patient as long as we aren’t sure that we won’t harm him. We’ve all sworn an oath concerning this. Maybe you’ve heard about it – it’s called the Hippocratic one.”

Keller gives her a grateful little smile, but Woolsey becomes highly irritated. “Well, as I said, then put the matter aside!”

“No,” Martha says simply, and everyone in the conference room turns towards her.

“ _No_?” Woolsey repeats incredulously. “Listen, doctor, I don’t care how UNIT has managed to get you aboard; _I am_ the leader of this outpost now, which means _I decide_ what the resources are gonna spent for.”

“Not in medical questions, you don’t,” Martha returned coolly. “In such matters the chief medical officer outranks everyone, and neither Dr. Keller nor I will abandon Dr. Beckett, so you shouldn’t even try to play us against each other. It won’t work.”

The Atlantis staff is absolutely baffled, and Ianto suppresses another smile. Yes, this is Martha Jones who walked the Earth during the year that never was… and saved it single-handedly, while even the great Jack Harkness and his precious Doctor were prisoners of the insane Master. The Martha Jones who infiltrated Pharm, risking to be infected by a deadly alien parasite; the one who fought with Death itself. If Mr. Woolsey thinks he can bully her around, he’ll never know what’s gonna hit him.

“However,” Martha continues, completely unfazed by Mr. Woolsey’s angry glare, “I believe I can offer her some help. I’ve brought a few medical instruments with me that might be useful with further research.”

That catches McKay’s interest. “What kind of instruments?” he asks eagerly. “Where do you have them from?”

Martha glances at Ianto and the two exchange amused smiles.

“I can’t tell you,” Martha replies. “It’s… classified. But rest assured, the instruments have been thoroughly tested and are safe. UNIT is practiced at using alien technology.”

“Alien… technology…” McKay repeats. “Have the rogue NID agents sold you guys stolen tech or whatnot?”

Martha just smiles mysteriously, which seems to irritate McKay more than any sarcastic reply could have. In fact, the head scientist is sputtering with indignation, and Ianto decides that smoothing over the waves may be the needful thing to do.

“Dr. McKay,” he says quietly, and everyone seems a bit surprised; they’ve forgotten about him already. “The Stargate isn’t the only possible source of alien technology. In fact, other organizations have scavenged it for two hundred years. Neither Dr. Jones nor I are allowed to tell you more about it, but I can assure you: we both know what we’re doing.”

“And _that_ ’s supposed to make me feel better?” McKay scoffs indignantly. Ianto shrugs.

“No; it’s supposed to make you stop digging where you aren’t supposed to,” he replies simply.

Woolsey chooses this very moment to clear his throat pointedly. “All right, Dr. Jones,” he says in a magnanimous manner, “you may continue the research – _after_ your regular duties. I must insist that they’d be done first.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Woolsey,” Martha replies with a sickeningly sweet smile. “ _I’m_ used to work beyond regular hours.”

Everyone desperately tries to hide their grins. Woolsey pretends not to see it. He closes the file and opens the next one.

“Right, then. The next topic…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
After the morning meeting has been finished, Major Lorne shows Ianto the office of the late Dr. Grodin. It’s a moderate-sized one that has been emptied after the Englishman’s heroic death three years ago and hasn’t been used ever since. It isn’t dirty or anything… just abandoned, everything covered with a fine sheet of dust.

So the first thing Ianto does in order to make the office his is cleaning it meticulously. It isn’t a bad thing, actually, as it reminds him of Torchwood, his duties of old in the Hub. The technicians in the control room are smiling when they see him roll up his sleeves and get to work – Sally Jacobs even playfully offers to help him – but he just goes on unerringly, taking possession of his new home. It’s like a ritual… like marking his territory.

 _In any case, it’s better than pissing along the margins_ , he thinks in mild amusement.

When the cleaning is done, he finds the proper place for the coffee machine. Some of the technicians warn him that it might not be compatible with Ancient tech, but not only does the system allow the coffee maker to be plugged in; it seems to integrate it fully.

“That’s strange,” Gate Technician Eddie Wong, one of the few remaining from the original expedition, comments in surprise. “We even used to have problems to link our laptops with the system at the beginning. I never saw Atlantis accept a random piece of Earth tech so easily. Do you have a strong natural gene?”

Ianto shakes his head while he’s arranging the supplies in the small cupboard. “No; although the gene therapy did work on me moderately well.”

The technicians are more than a little surprised by that revelation – artificial genes don’t work half as well as natural ones, unless the carrier keeps practicing – but then they have to return to their work. Ianto brings forth the thermos flasks he’s ordered for the important science staff and stores them in the cupboard, too. Later, he’ll label these flasks and deliver the coffee to key scientific personnel individually… as soon as he’s done some research on personal preferences.

When everything is arranged to his liking, he powers up his Torchwood-issue laptop (seriously enhanced with alien technology) and connects it to the Atlantis system. He uses Tosh’s specially developed security programmes and firewalls, so he can be reasonably sure that while he’ll get access to everything onboard, no-one will be able to break into _his_ files. Unless Dr. McKay sets his mind to it, which is highly unlikely. Atlantis’ head geek will have other problems than spying on him. At least for a while.

He types in his username and password, and the Atlantis logo appears on his screen. He’s part of the team now. The thought makes him smile.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Martha and Dr. Keller have worked together all day. Although Keller won’t be leaving before the _Daedalus_ heads back to Earth, there’s a great deal for Martha to learn in those two weeks. So they’ve exchanged notices, visited labs, checked on patients, got acquainted to medical personnel until dinner time. Then Martha left to have dinner with Ianto, and Keller returned to her research. She must have been more tired than she’d thought, because when Martha comes back to the infirmary after dinner, she only finds the head nurse, a friendly Asian woman by the name of Marie Ko, and one of the male medics whose name she momentarily can’t remember, in the main area.

“Where’s Dr. Keller?” she asks.

“In her office,” Marie replies. “I’ll come with you and throw her out, or else she’ll never get any rest.”

“That’s probably the best,” Martha agrees.

She’s liked Marie at first sight. The head nurse is a level-headed, no-nonsense person, but friendly and patient to everyone – a definite advantage when someone works in a medical profession.

They enter Dr. Keller’s office and see that she’s fallen asleep on her desk, her head resting on her arms. Martha shakes her shoulder gently. “Dr. Keller?”

The younger woman wakes up and looks around in confusion for a moment. “What…?”

“It’s late,” Martha says quietly. “You should go home and…” She trails off and stares at Keller’s right hand that is covered with lumps of clear goo. “What’s _that_?”

“What’s _what_?” Keller lifts her hand off the desk, trailing strands of goo from the underside of her palm and looks at it in deep shock. “Oh my God!”

“Don’t panic!” Martha says, a lot more calmly than she actually feels. “Let me take a sample first, and then try to wash it off.”

She looks back at the head nurse who’s practically rooted to the floor. “Marie, no-one is allowed to know of this until we know what we’re dealing with. Especially not Mr. Woolsey!”

“They won’t learn it from me,” Marie promises, then she hurries off to the medic who’s still in the main area. “All right, Nguyen; let’s do one more series. See if we can get the results from…” her voice gets lost as she leads the medic out, so that he won’t notice anything.

Martha takes a sample of the goo and secures it for analysis. She’ll run it at night, in her personal lab, using alien equipment provided by UNIT and made compatible with Earth technology. She doesn’t want anyone else to learn about this; not until she has at least a halfways acceptable theory to offer – _if_ she’ll be able to develop one, that is. She’ll tell Ianto later, of course; it’s Ianto’s job to know everything on Atlantis. But she must deal with first things first.

Keller is busily washing her hand under a tap, then turns off the tap and dries her hands with a paper towel. Snapping on rubber gloves, Martha takes the towel from her and puts it into a secure bag. Then she sprays the sink with the strongest disinfection fluid she can find, hoping that it will be enough.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to put you under quarantine,” she says.

Keller nods. “Of course. I’ll be in my quarters.”

But Martha shakes her head. “That’s not a good idea. The personal quarters aren’t secure; and besides, we can better keep an eye on you if you’re here.”

Keller sighs. “You’re right. What was I thinking? One of the isolation rooms, then. This wasn’t how I imagined handing things over to you…”

“Me neither,” Martha admits. “Well, then, choose your cell. I’ll set up some equipment in my lab and start the analysis on that sample.”

Keller nods again and heads towards the isolation room, just when Marie Ko comes back.

“Doctor, you’re still here,” she says with slight reproval in her voice.

“And I’ll stay here for a while, I’m afraid,” Keller replies. “Just like Dr. Jones. We can’t risk whatever this is to spread over Atlantis. I’m moving into Isolation Room #2 for the time being.”

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, I think you’re pushing yourself a little hard,” Marie says. “You should take it easy.”

Keller gives her a nervous smile. “This isn’t a reaction to stress, Marie. I’m not sure what it is, but it can’t be some sort of psychosomatic symptom.”

“Are…” Marie hesitates for a moment. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Keller replies absently while entering the isolation room. “I’m fine.”

She pulls the curtains and enters the shower block of the room. Marie looks at Martha anxiously.

“Is she gonna be all right?”

“I don’t know,” Martha replies honestly. “But I’ll try to find out. Want to help me?”

Marie nods. “Oh yeah. What can I do?”

“I need to set up some equipment,” Martha says. “Come with me. We don’t have any time to waste.”


	9. Breakthrough

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**PART 08 – BREAKTHROUGH**

Ianto has been in Atlantis for four days – watching, analyzing, making detailed notes in his native Welsh (it is the beauty of a constantly changing, living language that it fools many decoding programmes) before making his first approach on Dr. Zelenka. He’s been waiting for the right moment for the last three days, ready with the bait. 

So far, he hasn’t got any luck with cornering the scruffy little Czech. Zelenka is simply too busy – too _overworked_ – to be caught, running high on adrenaline and bad coffee and way too little sleep… and the signs are showing. Zelenka needs to be cared for, just like McKay; the two men are crucial for the continued existence of Atlantis, and Ianto knows that particular duty has been laid onto his doorstep. He doesn’t really mind. He was born to be a caretaker; it gives his life meaning. And he knows that the way of taking care of McKay leads through Zelenka, because Zelenka is one of the very few people McKay trusts unconditionally.

Today it seems to be the right day to make his move, though. The Gate room is virtually empty; everyone else but the night shift – a mere three people – has gone home. Everyone _but_ Dr. Zelenka, of course, who’s still working on recalibrating the long-range sensors… or something like that. Ianto makes another mental note to look up Zelenka’s working schedule before stepping out of his office and asking politely.

“Dr. Zelenka, could you, please, come into my office for a moment? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Zelenka turns around with his seat and blinks owlishly, his eyes bloodshot behind his glasses. His face is weary, and Ianto can almost hear his thoughts about the new administration making his life living hell, even more than it already is.

“Can it wait?” he asks. “I’m working on stubborn problem right now.”

“Which, I’m quite sure, will still be there in ten minutes,” Ianto points out, smiling at the tired man encouragingly. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

“All right,” Zelenka rises from his seat with a heartfelt groan and follows him into his office. “You couldn’t just come out to my workstation, could you?”

“I could,” Ianto agrees, navigating him towards a surprisingly comfortable armchair he’s found in one of the store rooms with the help of Major Lorne, “but I’m told you don’t like hot beverages to be placed near sensitive equipment.” And with that, he places a steaming mug of his best espresso and a small plate of selected biscuits on the coffee table at Zelenka’s elbow. “Give it a try, Dr. Zelenka.”

Zelenka sets down his glasses, takes the mug in both hands, as if wanting the heat of it to seep into his cold fingers, and immerses his tired face in the fragrant coffee vapours, inhaling deeply.

“All right,” he says. “What do you want from me? My firstborn? My upcoming Nobel prize? All my past and future properties? For _this_ , you can have everything.”

Ianto smiles, seeing the man’s complete and obvious bliss.

“All I need is some information regarding the working schedules of the science department,” he answers. “I need to work out a sensible roster for the city, and I was told you’re the one who does it for the science department.”

“ _Now_?” Zelenka asks in complete bafflement. His eyes are large without the glasses; he looks rumpled and drained, and Ianto laughs gently.

“No, of course not now,” he says. “Right now, all I want is that you drink your coffee, eat your biscuits and go home in,” he looks down at his stopwatch, pressing the upper button, “in twenty minutes, tops. I’ll be counting.”

“I can’t!” Zelenka protests without any real heat, because honestly, there’s nothing he’d want to do more. “My work…”

“…will still be there in the morning, and Miss Jacobs is more than capable of keeping an eye on the instruments,” Ianto interrupts calmly. “You no longer need to do everything by yourself, doctor. That’s what additional personnel are for. Save your energy for real emergencies.”

“Rodney won’t like this,” Zelenka says darkly. “But my wife would kiss you for sending me home. Of course, then I’d have to kill you, and then who’d make us coffee like _this_?” he hums happily into the coffee vapours. “Mmmm… where did you learn to do this?”

“My former boss was addicted to industrial strength coffee,” Ianto smiles wistfully. “I kept him up and running on caffeine for three years.”

“It’s not just the strength; it’s the taste, too… and the aroma,” Zelenka murmurs dreamily. “ _Muj Boze_ , if we had coffee like this all the time, we’d have beaten the Wraith years ago!”

“It’s not for general consumption,” Ianto warns him. “Just for key personnel. I don’t have the time to play Alfred the butler to everyone. But if you tell me who _needs_ to have it, I’ll deliver a thermos to their labs right at the beginning of their shift.”

Zelenka nods, making an almost disturbingly sensual display of enjoying his coffee and biscuits, right down to the blissful little moans accompanying each bite. “We’ll all worship at your feet in no time,” he then says. “We haven’t had any _decent_ coffee since poor Dr. Wagner was killed by that nanovirus, more than three years ago.”

Ianto shudders sympathetically. “Three years of bad coffee sounds like hell,” he agrees. “I’ll see that you get the good stuff from now on.”

Zelenka gives him a suspicious look. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “I thought you were here to be Mr. Woolsey’s assistant.”

“I was sent here as general support,” Ianto corrects. “To help Mr. Woolsey run things, to keep everything archived and categorized. To help organize working schedules here, so that people like you can save their time for the really important work. To take care of people who keep the city in one piece and its inhabitants alive.”

For several moments, Zelenka stares at him searchingly, as if wanting to find out whether or not he’s being honest; then he nods in agreement.

“Very well,” he says. “When I’ve finished work here, I’ll send you list of key personnel – and current working schedule – from my quarters via e-mail.”

“No,” Ianto replies. “When you’re finished here – which, by the way, will be in fifteen minutes,” he adds, checking the stopwatch, “you’ll go home and _rest_. You’ll give me those lists _tomorrow_ ; that will be soon enough. You seem permanently sleep-deprived, and that’s not a safe thing for someone working with alien tech. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Zelenka gives him a tired little smile. “I’ve been working like this all these years, Mr. Jones.”

“Then it’s time to break you out of the habit,” Ianto says and takes the empty mug from the older man’s slightly trembling fingers. “Go home, Dr. Zelenka. I’ll see you in the morning – with _coffee_.”

Zelenka blinks a few times at Ianto’s firm tone; then he grins and jogs back to his work. But when Ianto closes his office half an hour later, he’s indeed gone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When Ianto appears in Zelenka’s lab in the next morning, back in his impeccable suit, and hands him a thermos labelled with his name, everyone gives him bewildered looks. Zelenka grins happily, opens the thermos and pours himself a cup of the fantastic coffee. Work in the lab stops immediately as the aroma wafts through the room. McKay, the only one who hasn’t noticed Ianto’s arrival yet, finally turns around with his seat, his nostrils fluttering in excitement.

“What is _that_?” he asks, as close to a trance as anyone has ever seen him. Ianto gives him his best receptionist smile.

“We in the UK call it _coffee_ , Dr. McKay,” he replies blandly.

Zelenka nearly chokes on his coffee, and the other scientists turn hurriedly away to hide their grins. McKay doesn’t notice any of this. He zones in onto Zelenka – or, rather the thermos in his hands – like a dreamwalker… or like a bloodhound, led by scent only.

“That,” he declares in a voice one only hears after a religious experience, “is not simply coffee. I don’t know _what_ it is and where you got if from, Radek, but I want it.”

“ _Ne_!” Zelenka declares forcefully, retreating with his booty into safe distance from his boss. “This is _mine_ , given me by the most generous Mr. Jones. See? Has my name on it. You want some, get your own. Ask Mr. Jones nicely – perhaps he’ll make you some, too.”

McKay turns to Ianto, taking conscious notice of the young Welshman’s existence for the first time since his arrival on Atlantis.

“You can make coffee like _that_?” he asks doubtfully.

Ianto shrugs. “I can make it any way you want. All part of a section leader’s privileges in my books.”

McKay swallows audibly. “The way it smells now would do for me, too, just nicely,” he says. Ianto nods.

“Very good, sir. I’ll provide you with your own thermos at the beginning of each duty shift, starting tomorrow.”

“What about _today_?” McKay ask, his voice so child-like hopeful that Ianto almost becomes weak for a moment. But only for a moment. He won’t allow people to take him for granted _ever_ again.

“Today you’ll have to persuade Dr. Zelenka to share,” he says with one of his trademark bland smiles. “But no bullying,” he adds warningly. “ _That_ would make you end up without any coffee at all. Ask _nicely_.”

With that, he leaves Zelenka’s lab to visit Dr. Kusanagi. He intends to talk to her about sharing tea and Japanese conversation, somewhen in the not too distant future.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto never learns if McKay has managed to make Zelenka share the coffee with him in this particular morning. But from the next day on, he appears in the labs at the beginning of each duty shift and hands out thermos flasks (pointedly marked with name tags) to Doctors McKay, Zelenka and Simpson. 

After a week, when all have got used to his daily appearance, he makes it a policy to visit the labs at the beginning of each shift and leave exactly _one_ thermos of his already legendary coffee for the common folk, too. He does the same for the Gate room and the Infirmary. But that’s as far as he’s willing to go down the path that would lead back to the coffee boy status. They’ll have to learn how to share.

The recipients bless his name and – as Zelenka had prophesized – eat out of his hand nonetheless, especially as he now has figured out personal preferences and is willing to consider them, if properly bribed. (It wouldn’t do to play favourites, after all.) 

The only people who don’t share the general coffee addiction are Doctors Kusanagi and Bryce; and the Athosians, of course, who prefer their traditional tea. But since he’s also made it his policy to quietly yet firmly throw Zelenka out of the lab an hour after the man’s shift has officially ended (bare any emergencies, of course), he’s earned the never-ending gratitude of Zelenka’s Athosian wife. This gratitude is usually expressed in the form of delicious Athosian biscuits, part of which he shares with Martha and Dr. Kusanagi; the rest he uses for bribery, for the biscuits are very popular among the crew.

A week and a half aren’t a long time to get used to work on such a fundamentally different workplace, but strangely enough, Ianto has the feeling that he’s already found his own little niche on Atlantis. He counts himself blessed by Martha’s presence and easy friendship, and he’s formed a bond with Technician Jacobs as well. She is UNIT, after all, privy to a great deal of knowledge Ianto shares, plus she’s from the London division, which means they’re potential allies. Sergeant Mehra is a different issue, of course, but even she keeps in touch, because that is what’s expected from UNIT and Torchwood personnel – even from the retired ones.

The workload is every bit as brutal as it was at Torchwood. But at least it’s a clean desk (or computer) job, most of the time. No Weevil shit to shovel out, no pterodactyl to feed (although sometimes he does miss Myfanwy, strange as it sounds even to him), the Marines take care of any bodies that might be left, and the kitchen personnel does the washing up. The surroundings are the best part of the whole deal; they’re truly breath-taking. He misses the mountains of his Welsh country, but he has to admit that the dual moonrise above the ocean waves more than makes up for a little homesickness. His only complaint is that he has no one to share it with.

He’s established a most efficient working schedule. Since he has several hundred people whose lives he has to organize, efficiency is more important than it ever was. He still gets up early (and still hates it), but at least can afford half an hour of quiet recovery time in his quarters to come to his senses gradually. After having delivered the coffee to all the necessary places, he has a working breakfast with Mr. Woolsey in the large office overlooking the Gate room, during which they discuss both the events of the previous day and the tasks of the upcoming one.

Done with the paperwork, Ianto takes a walk in the city, following a previously set-up plan, to familiarize himself with the layout and get a feeling of his surroundings. He tries to memorize the location of the transporter chambers, knowing he won’t always have a city map ready at hand. Major Lorne, who doesn’t like newbies roam the city alone, often accompanies him; in other times, he sends Stackhouse, whose quiet nature Ianto has come to value greatly, especially after McKay’s temper tantrums. Then he returns to his office, accesses the mainframe computer and learns as much about Atlantis as he can, starting his studies backward, because that is the practical thing to do.

He always has lunch in the mess hall. It’s necessary to keep in touch with people, to learn their names, to mark their faces. They’ve all got used to his personal dress code by now, and he doesn’t lack friendly invitations to join one of the groups for lunch. He tries to vary his lunch partners as much as possible. These people need to learn to know him, too, if he wants them to trust him. And as the head of the local administration, he needs their trust.

In the afternoon, he does the filing and archiving work. It’s a lot easier than at Torchwood. Firstly, because it’s all done digitally, and secondly because the scientists already have worked out a very practical system, which he simply adopts. There’s no need to fix that which isn’t broken.

This fact gives him an unhoped-for slice of spare time, which he uses to catch up with the previous activities on Atlantis. To learn about the history of the expedition, about the various alien cultures, about the trade agreements with other planets. For this, he often meets with Teyla, and that’s a delight. On every odd day, unless she’s needed in one of the labs, he meets Dr. Kusanagi. They share tea and practice Japanese, which is also a delight. She makes him miss Tosh a little less, even though she’s a very different person.

He also helps Mr. Woolsey prepare his weekly reports and spends time in the Gate room to learn as much about the tech there as it’s possible for a non-scientist. It’s necessary to become familiar with the Control room equipment, as he’s one of those people whose authorization can start – or stop – the self-destruct sequence, should Mr. Woolsey not be available. It’s a responsibility he doesn’t really want, but he accepts it as part of his duties.

He always has dinner with Martha. Sometimes Bates joins them, too – he seems to be interested in her, despite the fact that she’s otherwise engaged, and Ianto can’t help thinking that they’d make a beautiful couple – or Jacobs, but usually, it’s just the two of them. Like today.

“We’ve expected you to come down to the infirmary and sign our weekly report,” Martha reminds him.

“I intended to,” Ianto explains, dumping his tray on the table, “but I’ve lost almost an hour trying to hunt down Dr. McKay about his fairly unreasonable food orders... and didn’t even find him.”

“He was in the Infirmary, all afternoon” Martha laughs. “First he visited Dr. Beckett, as usual; then he sat with Jennifer, babbling like a schoolboy during his first crush, and then he spent a good hour looking over my shoulder, trying to figure out how my instruments work… and getting on my nerves.”

“Did he? Figure out how things work, I mean?” Ianto asks, attacking his dinner with the healthy appetite of a young man who hasn’t eaten for half a day. The food here is the usual military-issue stuff, produced for mass consummation, but after having lived on take-outs for years while with Torchwood, it actually tastes good. He makes a mental note to find the time for regular visits in the gym, or his suits won’t fit anymore in no time.

Martha shakes her head. “Nah; I’m sure he could figure out, would I allow him to take them apart. But since these are the only ones we have, I’m trying to keep them safe from him,” she grins and begins to eat, too.

“How’s Dr. Keller doing?” Ianto asks.

“Not too bad, surprisingly,” Martha says. “The symptoms have stopped for the time being – we have no idea why, or what caused them in the first place. All tests came back negative: blood work, CT, MR, Ancient scanner results… everything. I’m going to do a full genetic check-out tomorrow, in case she’s caught a mutated form of the retrovirus she’s been working with. But she needs a couple of days to rest between two series of tests… she’s driven herself too hard since Dr. Beckett was found.”

“Speaking of which,” Ianto says, “how’s the research concerning Dr. Beckett going?”

“It’s going well,” Martha replies with a contented little smile. “We’ve finished another series of lab tests, and the cloned cells were capable of stabilizing, every time.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Ianto asks, and Martha nods.

“Better than we’ve hoped for, in fact. We’ll try to reanimate Dr. Beckett tonight and see whether the serum works as intended or not.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Ianto asks.

“Well, we can always put him back into cryogenic suspension,” Martha replies. “But actually, I’m quite optimistic. We’ve repeated the tests several times; the results are always the same,” she puts her fork down and smiles at Ianto. “Do you want to be there when we get him out of the stasis pod?”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve already seen enough such things for a lifetime,” Ianto replies, memories of the Torchwood morgue darkening his face. “But I’ll go if you want me there.”

“I’d like you to be my witness… just in case something goes wrong and the SGC tries to put the blame on me,” Martha says honestly, and Ianto nods.

“Of course. I haven’t thought of that, but it might be necessary.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And so some forty minutes later Ianto is standing at the stasis chamber, together with Martha, Dr. Keller – who’s wearing a hazmat suit for the protection of the others – Dr. McKay, who’s supposed to deal with the tech, and a couple of medics with a gurney. Through the semi-transparent field surrounding the stasis pod Ianto can only see the vague outline of the occupant. McKay is checking the instruments. He seems nervous. It’s a sentiment that Ianto understands and whole-heartedly shares.

Reminiscences of bringing back a dead (and frozen) Suzie with the help of that cursed resurrection glove resurface; and the near-disaster that followed in its wake. And Jack’s well-meant bit also near-fatal action to bring back Owen; the memory of _that_ makes him want to become violently sick. Not because he wanted Owen to stay dead – because the doctor wasn’t _alive_ afterwards, not truly, and working alongside an animated corpse isn’t the fun horror movies make it seem to be.

And those were just the dead. But there are people – and _creatures_ – under the Hub that are merely frozen; and as Ianto looks at the glacial form of Atlantis’ first doctor in that stasis pod, he realizes that he’ll never be able to return to the Hub. Not as long as Jack’s insane brother is still sleeping in his comfortable high-tech freezer under their feet, waiting for the next best system failure to break free and start killing them all over again.

He’d never demand from Jack to kill his long-lost brother, no matter what havoc said brother wrought upon them. Not even though Gray is every bit the risk Lisa was while he still kept her in the basement. Not even though – despite all logical arguments – he still resents Jack somewhere deep down for having Lisa killed like… like the rampant Cyberman that she’d become. He knows, logically, that Jack had no other choice. They’ve discussed this during his suspension. And yet a rest of that resentment is still there, despite the fact that he’s come to love Jack.

The fact that Jack has spared his own brother, who “only” wanted to kill the people Jack loved doesn’t help battling that resentment. Because honestly, where would Gray have stopped? Would have been murdering all Torchwood personnel enough for him or would he have gone after their families next? Ianto thinks of Rhiannon, and Johnny, who’s a dick sometimes, but a friendly one at least, and of their small children… and realizes that no matter what, he couldn’t put them at that kind of risk again. Not for Torchwood, not for Jack… for nothing and no-one. As long as Gray is still there, still alive – well, sort of – Ianto won’t be able to return to Torchwood.

The realization hurts like a bitch, but it also puts his mind at ease, for he finally understands the main thing that has been bothering him since the deaths of Tosh and Ianto. He’ll never give Jack such an ultimatum, of course; that would be cruel and terribly selfish. He understands the meaning of family, and he can’t – and _wouldn’t_ – expect Jack to put him above the only thing… the only _person_ that remains from his past. Which is the reason why he’ll never tell Jack the whole truth about why he’ll be leaving Torchwood for good. It will hurt them both, but at least it won’t put Jack into an impossible place.

He shakes his head a little and refocuses his attention on the stasis pod in front of them. He finds it strange that the occupant has been frozen in a standing position, but the Ancients saw these things differently, it seems. McKay is fumbling with his laptop, which has been interfaced with the life support system of the stasis pod, then he looks up into Martha’s face anxiously.

“You sure about this?” he asks anxiously. Beckett has been his friend since the beginning, and even though _this_ Beckett isn’t exactly the one he used to know, he doesn’t want to lose him… again.

“Rodney,” Keller interferes, her voice slightly dampened by the headpiece of her hazmat suit, “we’re never gonna _be_ sure unless we give it a shot. If we don’t take a chance now, he could be in there forever.”

“Besides, it’s safer to give it a try while Dr. Keller is still on Atlantis,” Martha adds. “She’s the one who’s done most of the research. I only helped a little with the final tests.”

That particular aspect seems to reassure McKay – to a certain extent.

“All right, then,” he says, still a little reluctantly, and then he types something onto his computer tablet.

The stasis field surrounding the pod collapses. It’s an interesting process, as if one would watch something – well, in this case some _one_ – frozen being thawed out in a fast-forward manner. That which looked like a thick layer of ice melts away rapidly, revealing a stockily built, pale-faced, dark-haired man in his late thirties. The man blinks – the incredibly blue eyes under those long, dark lashes nearly stop Ianto’s heart for a moment, reminding him of Jack’s eyes with painful clarity – then he starts to collapse. The medics catch him in the moment he passes out… and seem to have a hard time to deal with his dead weight.

“Get him on the gurney,” Martha orders, eager to run the first tests.

It’s apparently easier said than done, and after a moment Ianto has mercy with the grunting medics, helping them to heave the unconscious doctor, who’s quite heavy indeed – much heavier as he looks – onto the gurney.

“Careful!” Keller warns them, and looks anxiously from the patient to McKay, and finally to Martha. That she’s not allowed to touch her patient is hard for her.

“No need to panic,” Martha injects the patient in the neck with practiced ease. “This is a normal reaction to having spent a considerable time in stasis. He’ll sleep it off in a few hours.”

She gives the medics a sign, and they wheel the patient away.

“Now what?” McKay demands.

“Now we take him to the Infirmary and watch for signs of more cellular degradation,” Keller explains. “We should know soon enough.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Jennifer, but _you_ ’ll have to return to the isolation room,” Martha corrects. “It’s been a risk to allow you to participate to begin with, even in a hazmat suit, but we needed you here.”

“You’ll need me watching Carson’s vitals!” Keller protests, but Martha has very obviously made up her mind about the case already and won’t back off.

“No, we don’t,” she says bluntly. “That’s what the diagnostic instruments are for. We’ll consult you if anything unexpected happens, and we’ll keep you informed, but you’re a risk for us all, and you know it.”

“Wait a minute!” McKay jumps in to support Keller, which doesn’t really surprise anyone. “Haven’t you said that her symptoms are gone?”

“For the moment, yes,” Martha allows, “but we still haven’t got the faintest idea what caused them… they can be simply dormant for the moment and may return at any given time tenfold. I’m truly sorry, Jennifer, but I must insist that you isolate yourself again.”

“That’s ridiculous!” McKay fumes. “A blind man can see that she’s all right!”

At this point Martha loses her patience with him.

“Dr. McKay,” she says icily, “that’s quite enough. Either you stop interfering with my work, or I’ll ban you from the Infirmary for infinite time. You might have got your way with my predecessors by being obnoxious, but let me assure you – it won’t work with _me_. Now, go back to your _true science_ and let me deal with my _voodoo medicine_ before I do something I’ll regret.”

Seeing the belligerent head scientist rendered speechless by a resolute lady is a thing of beauty. Ianto only regrets that Zelenka can’t witness it; it would make the little Czech’s day… nah, his entire _week_!

McKay storms off, spluttering in indignation. Martha sighs, shakes her head and looks at Ianto.

“Dr. Beckett will be out like a light for hours,” she says. Will you fill in Mr. Woolsey? I’d like to stay with my patient, and just don’t have the nerve to deal with that pompous little paper-pusher right now.”

“Sure,” Ianto doesn’t mind it. He can handle Mr. Woolsey better than anyone else, so he often gets such things dropped into his lap. He does it for everyone, so why shouldn’t he do so for Martha, of all people?

“Go,” he says. “Go and take care of him. “I’ll keep your back free.”

“Thanks,” Martha gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “I owe you one, Ianto Jones.”

“And I’m a man who collects his debts, eventually,” Ianto smiles and leaves to seek out his boss.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As expected, he finds Mr Woolsey in his office, above the Gate room. The nominal leader of Atlantis is readying reports like every evening – he does work a lot, one has to give him at least that much – and looks up at Ianto’s arrival in a manner that’s part tired, part irritated. The irritated part is due to Ianto’s reluctance to wear a uniform, unless at official events. They’ve already had a few coldly polite discussions about the topic; discussions that have ended with Ianto emerging victorious, every single time. Mr. Woolsey is simply no match for someone who’s worked for two different branches of Torchwood, led by such vastly different people like Yvonne Hartmann and Jack Harkness. He is, as Martha so accurately put, just a little paper pusher who can’t be compared with Ianto’s former bosses.

“They’ve got Dr. Beckett out of the stasis pod,” Ianto tells his current boss without preamble. Subtlety would be a wasted thing on Mr. Woolsey, as he’s learned early on.

“Have they?” Woolsey seems a bit surprised. “I thought Dr. Jones didn’t want to push forward the process unnecessarily.”

“She didn’t,” Ianto shrugs, “but now she saw the time ripe for a try.”

Woolsey rubs his tired eyes behind his glasses. “I see. How did it go?”

“Good, so far,” Ianto replies. “Dr. Beckett is currently sleeping out the after-effects of stasis. Dr. Jones gave him the first injection, and now he’s under supervision. They’re waiting for the results; if they’re lasting or only temporary.”

“How long will it take until they know if for sure?” Woolsey asks.

Ianto shrugs again. “Couple of hours, I reckon. I’ll keep you informed as soon as I learn anything.”

“Good,” Woolsey says absently. “You’re going back to the Infirmary, I assume?”

Ianto nods. “I want to be there when he wakes up. He’ll have a lot to adjust, given the changes that have happened during his freezer time.”

“That’s true,” Woolsey’s mind is on the next report already. “Well, let’s see how it turns out. Don’t want to alert the SGC before we know anything for sure… make them hopes, only to disappoint them again.”

This is the first halfways sensitive thing Ianto has heard from Mr. Woolsey for two weeks. Perhaps there’s still hope for the man. He nods and leaves the office – first for his quarters, to make a new entry into his hand-written diary, and then back to the Infirmary.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It doesn’t surprise him the least to find not only McKay at Dr. Beckett’s bedside, but also Colonel Sheppard, Teyla, Ronon Dex, Dr. Zelenka – even Bates. He knows the man – or rather his predecessor – used to be well-loved by practically everyone, and understands the need to see him awake. He can see Dr. Simpson out on the balcony, smoking a cigarette, like always when she’s nervous. Even Miko Kusanagi is there, hiding in a corner, but determined to see Carson Beckett to open those beautiful blue eyes again.

The good doctor chooses the very moments after Ianto’s return to do so, having slept – despite everyone’s expectations – less than an hour. He must have been thoroughly fed up with being unconscious. He looks around a little groggily, and, recognizing McKay, the shadow of a dimpled smile appears on his face.

“Hey there,” McKay says, his voice unexpectedly gently. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” Beckett swallows, his throat probably dry like sandpaper. “What happened?”

McKay stares down at him with _almost_ convincing exasperation, but his eyes are a tiny bit misty.

“Well, what do you think?!” he asks in his customary irascible manner that nobody really buys right now. “We thawed you out, that’s what happened!”

Teyla smiles down at the doctor serenely and hands him a glass of water with a drinking straw. She’s a supremely practical person and not given to sentimentality.

“It is nice to see you again, Carson,” she says simply.

“Yeah,” Ronon Dex agrees, while Beckett drinks slowly but steadily, in small sips, his medical professionalism overcoming his painful thirst just in time. “What’s up, Doc? It’s been a while.”

“Aye,” Beckett agrees, and for the first time, Ianto recognizes his thick Scottish brogue. It gives him such a sentimental feeling of _home_ , even though he’s Welsh; but Celts are Celts, after all. 

“How long was I in there?” Beckett asks, handing the now empty glass back to Teyla.

Sheppard waves off the question congenially. “Ah, two months, give or take a few days. Barely worth mentioning.”

“If you say so,” Beckett seems a bit doubtful about that but is willing to believe it… for the time being. “Did I miss anything?”

Sheppard shrugs. “You know, just the usual. We saved the galaxy – again – and as the usual thank-you, the I.O.A. managed to punch us into the guts. Again. Same old, same old.”

“Careful, Colonel,” Ianto warns him. “That’s an unbecoming attitude towards the civilian leader of the expedition.”

“Report me then!” Sheppard snaps at him.

“Don’t make me,” Ianto replies; he doesn’t want to report Sheppard – in fact, he agrees with the Colonel in a number of things, especially when it comes to Mr. Woolsey, but the newly recruited expedition members might _not_ be so understanding. “I’m blessed with paperwork for several lifetimes as it is.”

Beckett finally notices the unknown face… and the somewhat out-of-place clothing habits of the stranger.

“And who would be you, laddie, if you don’t mind my asking?” he inquires.

Ianto shakes hands with the man, mindful of the IV tubes attached to Beckett’s arm.

“Jones,” he says. “Ianto Jones, responsible for paperwork and general support. If you need to order anything, doctor, I’m your go-to guy.”

Beckett recognizes his accent, of course, and his smile grows in width. “And a Welshman, too, aren’t ya?”

“Born, bred and proud of it,” Ianto replies. “I’ve been assigned here just a couple of weeks ago.”

“Ach? And where have you worked before?” Beckett wonders, knowing that some random clerk from the UK wouldn’t get this assignment so easily.

“Torchwood,” Ianto answers simply. “I understand you’re familiar with the organization.”

“Aye, that I am,” Beckett’s eyes are widening in surprise. “Though I only helped out the Glasgow branch a few times with alien genetics. I didnae know you lot were involved with the Stargate program.”

“We weren’t,” Ianto says, “not until recently, that is. It’s a long story.”

“Which you can tell Dr. Beckett in peace, once he’s relieved from here,” Martha walks in and hands a computer tablet to her patient. “Right now, I’ve got good news. At the moment, you’re showing no signs of cellular degradation.”

“You were able to recreate the treatment?” Beckett asks in delight. He doesn’t ask who Martha is; perhaps he thinks she’s one of the new ersatz nurses sent from Earth, or one of the lab rats or something like that.

“Dr. Keller has,” Martha corrects. “She’ll tell you all about it once she’s rested a little. It’s not a permanent solution, though; you’ll need those injections for a while, until we can fix you for good. _If_ we can, that is.”

“I know that, love,” Beckett replies, “but it’s good enough for now. Who’d be _you_ , by the way? I donnae seem to remember you at all.”

“You can’t,” Martha explains. “I’ve just come here, together with Ianto… I mean Mr. Jones,” she, too, shakes hands with him. “Dr. Martha Jones, formerly medical officer of UNIT, at your service. I’m Dr. Keller’s replacement.”

“ _Replacement_?” Beckett echoes incredulously. “What’s wrong with her? Is she ill? Did she have an accident or what?”

“She’s been recalled to Earth, but will still be here until the _Daedalus_ heads back home,” Martha answers. “As for the why, it’s another long story we’ll have to discuss later. You’ll be able to talk to Dr. Keller in the morning, but she _really_ needs to rest now. She’s worked around the clock to bring you back, for weeks.”

She doesn’t mention Keller’s mysterious condition. Beckett has already more than enough to digest for one night. Detailed news, especially those of medical nature, can wait till the morning.

“And _you_ ’ll need to rest, too,” she adds sternly. “Your body must get used to function on its own again. So, now that everyone has seen you being safe and sound…” she turns to the others. “Would you mind to go home now? If everything checks out all right, I’ll release Dr. Beckett within the next twenty-four hours. Until then – good night!”

The others try to protest at first, but Martha is determined to protect the peaceful sleep of her patient and puts down her foot firmly. So, one by one, Beckett’s friends wish him a good night and file out of the Infirmary, promising to check back on him on the next day.

Barely is the next one out of the door, Beckett’s eyes fall closed, and he slips back into sleep again.

“He’s exhausted,” Martha says quietly. “Being in stasis puts a strain on one’s body, even if Ancient technology is involved.”

“Will he be all right?” Ianto asks quietly. He looks forward to spend time with this gentle-hearted, intelligent man who’s so unexpectedly brought back the feeling of home for him. To learn to know the _person_ behind all those reports he’s read; behind the stories he’s heard.

Martha nods. “I hope so… as long as he gets his regular injections. We’ll see. But he’ll need new quarters when I release him. His old quarters have been reassigned to Jennifer years ago, and I got put into his temporary ones from last year.”

Ianto recalls what he’s learned about Atlantis’ layout so far – which is a lot.

“I seem to remember that there are larger quarters available, a little further away from the command level, opened up for use since the new zedPM got installed,” he says. “Since Dr. Beckett is no longer formally a member of the expedition, perhaps one of those will suffice. In fact, I believe long-term personnel ought to be moved in more comfortable quarters anyway.”

Martha shakes her head in tolerant amusement. “Ianto Jones, you’re amazing!” she says. “You’ve been barely here for a fortnight, and already know this place like the back of your hand. How do you _do_ that?”

Ianto shrugs and smiles, a little embarrassed. “Well, eidetic memory and a hang to be thorough come in handy, I guess,” he says. “I’ll see that Dr. Beckett has quarters to his name by the time you release him.”

“Thanks, you’re a godsend,” Martha yawns and accepts the coffee Ianto pours her from the thermos he’s placed there two hours ago. “Are you reporting in to Mr. Woolsey?”

Ianto shakes his head. “Nah, there’s still time. I think it’s fairer towards Dr. Beckett when he learns about all the changes here before we let Mr. Woolsey lose on him. He deserves a peaceful night first.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Martha chuckles in agreement and waves after him as he leaves the Infirmary via balcony. The good thing on Atlantis is that you can walk around from balcony to balcony on certain levels – this is one of those levels, and he feels he really needs some fresh air after today’s events.

He finds Dr. Simpson still smoking on the balcony. She’s apparently halfway through the pack of cigarettes; Ianto recognizes them as the brand she’s ordered from Earth and briefly wonders whether smoking is a habit known in the Pegasus galaxy at all.

“You shouldn’t smoke so much, Dr. Simpson,” he says. “It’s not healthy, and besides, the _Daedalus_ hasn’t even left for Earth. You’ll be through your stash way before you can order some more.”

Simpson shrugs. “I know. But it helps with my nerves,” she looks at him, noticing how his nostrils flutter involuntarily at the scent. “You a smoker, too?”

“I used to be,” Ianto admits. “Gave it up some two years ago, though. My… my significant other didn’t like the taste of nicotine. But sometimes it’s still tempting.”

“Here,” Simpson offers him the recently-lit cigarette. “I’ve had enough.”

Ianto accepts and inhales the smoke deeply. It feels good, but he knows he shouldn’t get addicted again.

“Thanks,” he says. “I don’t want to pick up the habit again – to be honest, it was hard enough to come down from it – but right now, it’s a life-saver. Perhaps I’m still jet-lagged or whatnot, but I seem to find it harder to work deep into the night than I used to.”

Simpson grins. “What you need is a hobby,” she declares. “You should join the poker tournament. With a face like yours, you’d beat the others hands down, every time.”

“Perhaps,” Ianto says mildly, “but it wouldn’t be a fair game. They wouldn’t have a rat’s chance against me,” he finishes the cigarette and throws the stump into the ocean; not an environment-friendly thing to do, but he secretly promises never to do it again. “Thanks for the smoke, Dr. Simpson. I think I’ll turn in now. Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day again.”

“You know what they say about Chinese curses and interesting times,” Simpson replies. “Be careful what you wish for; you might get it. Good night, then.”


	10. Conversions, Past & Present

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**PART 09 – CONVERSIONS, PAST AND PRESENT**

Getting up early in the Pegasus galaxy is every bit as unpleasant as getting up early in Cardiff used to be, Ianto finds, while he stumbles into the bathroom of his Spartan little quarters, his eyes practically closed. With the not insignificant difference that Atlantis is a lot bigger on providing creature comfort than his equally small and Spartan flat was, back in Cardiff.

For starters, he always wakes up to a pleasantly sharp and fresh scent in his bedroom, as if he’d have a window opened to an herb garden. Then, the water in his shower is always tempered perfect: just the way he likes it. He doesn’t even know how the city regulates these things – although he’d like to learn it one day – but it makes waking up at half past five a lot easier. As he stands under the needle-spray, he vaguely remembers some of the others complaining about the muffled air in their quarters, about showers too hot or too cold, but he has a hard time to believe it. He’s never had any problems with his shower. Or with connecting his electric razor to the power system, which also seems to be a recurring problem for certain people. Or doors shutting into his face and refusing to open again.

Interestingly enough, most of the people who have to face such problems are newcomers. Usually the ones that are making pointed remarks about the lack of discipline or the scientific methods of the original expedition members, especially Dr. McKay. The one or other Marine, stationed on Atlantis for a year, has complained, too.

Coincidentally, there are the same Marines who are rude to civilians and therefore really unpopular among the scientists. The signs are so subtle that most people don’t even notice the parallels. But Ianto Jones is an observant man. He makes a mental note to discuss the phenomenon with Dr. Kusanagi, who is the best computer expert here (no matter what Dr. McKay may think). 

He remembers Jack having said something about the TARDIS having a will of its own and begins to wonder if Atlantis works in a similar way. It would make sense. Both vessels represent the peak of the technology that has built them, probably with artificial intelligence too far developed and too subtle for the average human being to understand. Since Miko Kusanagi is anything but average, she might have some insight, though. She, too, is quiet and observant – such people see more than one would believe.

Right now, however, Ianto doesn’t have the time to ponder on the mysteries of Atlantis-the-city. He has work to do – a _lot_ of work – and he’s a man who takes great pride in his work. So he gets dressed, re-checks his immaculate appearance in the mirror and leaves for his office, exchanging murmured greetings with insomniac scientists, maintenance technicians and patrolling Marines on his way. It’s six-twenty; time to start the first round of coffee.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
While the coffee is brewing, Ianto checks the reports of the night shift to see if there’s anything he needs to forward to Mr. Woolsey. He finds nothing, so he starts the search for suitable quarters for Dr. Beckett. It’s easily found; he makes the necessary assignments, files the report and begins to leaf through the orders he has to forward to Master Sergeant Westerholm for the _Daedalus_ ’ next visit. He cuts McKay’s orders for power bars to the half; then reconsiders and allows the head scientist seventy per cent of what was originally requested, admitting that McKay _needs_ to be equipped with sugar boasters to function. 

He also makes a note to see their head geek properly fed – with things that would be actually _good_ for him. That means a long and probably unpleasant discussion with the quartermaster of the local Marine platoon, who’s responsible for the menu card and kitchen duty rotation, and Ianto secretly admits that ordering take-out for Torchwood Three was a lot easier. But he isn’t one to shy back from a good challenge, so he finds a gap in his busy schedule and makes an appointment with the Marine in question.

In the meantime the coffee is ready. Ianto fills the personal thermos flasks and delivers them to his caffeine-deprived scientists, earning a distracted hand-wave from McKay (focused on his computer screen with a frown), a sparkly-eyed smile from Zelenka (popping up from the midst of some gutted Ancient gizmo) and a look of almost embarrassing admiration from Simpson. He knows it’s addressed to his coffee, not to his person, but it’s still making him blush. Simpson notices it, of course, and winks at him conspiratorially, which only makes things worse.

It’s ridiculous, really; he’s never been shy. Formal, collected, quiet, yes, at least from the day on that he started working for Torchwood, but never shy. Perhaps it has to do something with the fact that he’s practically restarting his life here?

Returning to his office, he starts the second round of coffee, finally allowing himself the first mug of the day. He’s cut down caffeine influx considerably since coming to Atlantis, which has slowed him down a little, but he knows he’ll accommodate, eventually. Besides, he sleeps better (and slightly more) this way – and enjoys a great deal more the few cups he actually _does_ have. He even allows himself a biscuit today. Anais, Sergeant Stackhouse’s wife has expressed her gratitude in the time-honoured manner; she’s almost as good at baking as Mrs. Zelenka, and she _really_ appreciates the fact that Stacks has been taken off the permanent night watch, after Ianto had spoken a few words to Major Lorne.

When he’s finished the treat, it’s time to deliver the coffee to the Infirmary, the Gate room and the shared labs. After having the city properly caffeinated, Ianto collects his notes and readies himself to join Mr. Woolsey at their usual working breakfast.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He’s not really surprised to find Martha in Mr. Woolsey’s office as well. Their boss often invites the one or other section leader to these informal meetings, and it’s understandable that he’d want a first-hand report about Dr. Beckett’s condition and the possible outlook. Ianto only hopes he hadn’t dragged Martha out of bed after what must have been a way too short night for her. Apparently not; Martha looks a little tired, but not like someone who’s just got up.

Mr. Woolsey’s habit to have breakfast in his office and discuss things with his personal assistant and various section leaders while eating caused some bewilderment at first. After all, neither Dr. Weir nor Colonel Carter had ever done anything like that. In the meantime, however, the section heads have realized the advantages of the practice, even though they’d still prefer having the first real meal of the day in the mess hall.

Ianto, for his part, doesn’t mind. He secretly enjoys the small luxury of having his breakfast served him on a tray (by a Marine on kitchen duty) instead of being the one to serve food to the others. The only thing he contributes is the coffee. Mr. Woolsey doesn’t seem to recognize the difference between _his_ coffee and the questionable brew served in the mess hall, but the others do, and it makes them happy and content. Which is a good thing; Ianto _likes_ them happy and content.

He places the thermos on the table and takes the empty chair between Martha and Sheppard. Today’s breakfast club seems to have a small membership.

“Night shift reports no unusual activities at all,” he tells Mr. Woolsey, after breakfast has been delivered. “Long-range sensors haven’t picked up anything suspicious, and there weren’t any technical problems during the night.”

“Good,” Mr Woolsey butters his flatbread, made of some sort of local crop. The butter and cheese are made from the milk of _krumak_ , a vaguely goat-like animal the Athosians keep as livestock. Neither is the original item, but they’re actually not that bad, Ianto finds. Just… well, _different_.

“So, what’s the prognosis for Dr. Beckett’s recovery?” he asks, just to get the discussion moving. Mr. Woolsey usually needs a little warm-up, and everyone’s time is precious.

“Excellent,” Martha tells them, beaming. “I’m gonna release him after breakfast. Of course, he needs to stay under medical supervision for a while yet, as he’s been weakened due to the stasis and before that through his ordeal. But otherwise, I don’t see why he couldn’t live out his life in a good health.”

“Except that he’ll need those injections as long as he lives,” Sheppard comments, and Martha nods.

“Except that, yeah. But even if we never find a permanent solution, it’s not that different from a diabetic person using regular insulin shots.”

“I’ve arranged quarters for him,” Ianto tells her. “I’ll send the address to your computer in the Infirmary and will see that his belongings are brought out of storage.”

“I’ll send you some help,” Sheppard offers, but Woolsey interrupts their planning.

“I don’t think that permanent quarters will be necessary.”

“Why not?” Sheppard turns to him, ready to fight. But Woolsey isn’t as easily intimidated as people might think.

“Considering the circumstances, I find it better to send Dr. Beckett back to Earth,” he declares. “We have a scheduled dial-up this afternoon; he won’t even have to wait for the _Daedalus_.”

“You’re awfully eager to get rid of him,” Sheppard drawls, now too angry to even hide it. “You seem to forget that Carson helped to save your sorry ass when you and General O’Neill were held captive by the Asurians.”

“Actually,” Martha intervenes smoothly, “I find that a good idea, Colonel. We’re equipped for emergency cases and research here, mostly – but not for physical therapy and all the related cases. The Air Force Hospital in Colorado Springs has excellent rehab facilities… just what Dr. Beckett needs. He can always choose to return to Atlantis later, if that’s what he wants.”

Sheppard gives her a doubtful look. “You sure they can handle his condition back on Earth?”

Martha nods. “I’m positive. Not that I’d be particularly impressed by Dr. Lam at the SGC, to be honest. But Dr. Alisen Brightman in the AFH is an excellent physician. I’ll send her detailed instructions, and everything will be all right.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Woolsey agrees, not realising that Martha has just saved him from a small rebellion from the side of Atlantis’ military commander.

“So,” Sheppard says slowly, “who’s gonna tell him the good news?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then all eyes turn to Ianto, who groans and tries to give in as gracefully as he can.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He finds Carson Beckett, now wearing the uniform of the medical personnel of Atlantis, standing on the balcony, looking down at the city. Dr. McKay is standing with him, staring in the same direction a little uncomfortably. Either he knows about Mr. Woolsey’s decision already, or he’s made an educated guess. It’s not so hard, actually; he’s a certified genius, _and_ he’s known their new boss for years.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Beckett asks softly, his eyes never leaving the elegant spires of Atlantis. McKay shrugs.

“I... I suppose so,” he’s not one to notice the aesthetic aspects of something that’s the most amazing collection of highly developed technology, but it doesn’t mean he appreciates the city itself any less.

“You know,” Beckett continues in a voice full of indeterminable emotions, ”I really did miss this place.” 

McKay looks everywhere but at him. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” he replies awkwardly.

Beckett turns to him with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

McKay swallows audibly. He’s visibly upset, and Ianto regrets that he hasn’t managed to catch Dr. Beckett earlier. Unfortunately, the meeting with Mr. Woolsey has lasted longer than expected.

“Look…” he begins nervously, “I’ve just ran into this Dr. Jones person on my way to here, and she said…”

“…they’re sending me back to Earth,” Beckett finishes for him. It isn’t really a question, and his eyes, crystal blue and full of resignation, are on Ianto, whose approach he’s just noticed.

Ianto nods. “Through the Gate, in fact. There’s a scheduled dial-out this afternoon. I was sent to tell you about it, but it seems Dr. McKay was faster.”

Beckett’s heavy shoulders slump a little from the finality of it, and for a moment, Ianto feels incredibly sorry for him, even though he trusts Martha’s professional opinion that Beckett will be in good hands.

“Oh, well,” the doctor finally sighs, resignedly. “I suppose it’s to be expected. I mean, even with these injections, I imagine it’ll still be months before I’m in any sort of decent physical condition.”

Ianto doesn’t find anything wrong with the doctor’s condition. In fact, although a bit stockily built and way too pale, Carson Beckett is a very handsome man. Somehow he doesn’t think that such a comment would be welcome right now, though, and so he wisely keeps his opinion to himself.

McKay’s clearly unhappy with the prospect of losing his friend so soon, but before he could launch a tirade against paper pushers in general and Mr. Woolsey in particular, his radio cracks to life.

“Rodney, this is Teyla,” the calm voice of the Athosian woman says. “Come in, please.”

McKay activates his headset. “Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help,” Teyla tells him, and barely does she finish the sentence, McKay’s already moving.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto follows McKay and Beckett back to the infirmary. They find Teyla standing in front of the isolation room. She’s holding an Atlantis-issue computer tablet – one of those things improved with Ancient technology – and seems genuinely concerned.

“What happened?” McKay asks.

“It’s Doctor Keller,” Teyla explains. “I was supposed to visit her after breakfast, but she doesn’t show herself at all. By the look of it, she must still be in bed.”

McKay stares at the blanket-covered lump on the bed. “Well? So maybe she’s sleeping in.”

“I assumed as much as well and decided not to disturb her,” Teyla replies. “However, I’ve waited for almost two hours already, and she’s not responding to radio calls.”

“And what do you want _me_ to do about it?” McKay is only mildly irritated, which is unusual; but perhaps his concern for Dr. Keller has overruled his permanent irritation. Yep, definitely something going on between these two, even though they may not have realized yet.

Teyla hands him the tablet. “Override the door controls.”

McKay shakes his head. “No. Nonononono. I am so not breaking into her room.”

“Rodney,” Beckett says gently. “There might be something wrong. We havtae take a look at her.”

McKay takes the tablet from Teyla with an exasperated sigh. “Fine. But if she’s just in there sleeping, or naked or something, you guys are taking the blame.”

“I’m taking full responsibility,” Beckett assures him.

Which doesn’t mean a thing, as Beckett isn’t the CMO of Atlantis any longer – hell, he isn’t even listed as an expedition member anymore! – but it seems to be enough for McKay. Reluctantly, he takes the cover off the door panel and pulls out the middle crystal.

“All right then; it’s your funeral,” he says and starts working on the tablet as Teyla and Beckett wait impatiently.

The doctor is clearly worried and can’t keep from snapping at him after a few seconds. “Oh, for God’s sake, Rodney, hurry up!”

Glaring at him for a moment, McKay plugs a connection from the tablet into the crystal socket in the panel. Nothing happens. McKay scowls at the panel and tries a different approach. It’s as futile as the first one was.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “This _should_ work!”

Ianto mentally goes through the new protocols Mr. Woolsey has ordered to establish since his arrival, and it makes _click_ in his head.

“No, it’s _not_ supposed to,” he says. “Remember the new contamination protocol? Only the CMO and the expedition leader can override the door controls of the isolation chambers. You’ve installed the additional safeties yourself.”

“Well, if that isn’t great!” McKay practically explodes. “The CMO is _in there_ , and weaselly Woolsey would _never_ come down to let us in,”

“He must,” Beckett insists. “Dr. Keller may be in danger.”

“In danger that is probably contagious,” Teyla adds thoughtfully. “No, Rodney is right. Mr. Woolsey would never let us in. But what about Dr. Jones?”

Ianto shakes his head. “The final authorization hasn’t been transferred to her yet. Officially, she’s still learning her new duties. But perhaps _I_ can be of assistance.”

“ _You_?” McKay’s surprise would be insulting, were it not so comical. Ianto shrugs.

“Contrary to common belief, I’m more than just Mr. Woolsey’s office boy on Atlantis,” he says. “In fact, I’ve got the same authorization codes as he does, in case he’s killed, captured or otherwise incapacitated.”

Beckett gives him an exasperated look. “Well what the hell are ya waiting for, son? Go ahead, override the bloody door already!”

“As you wish,” Ianto takes the computer tablet from McKay and types in his authorization code one-handedly. It takes a moment till the system re-checks the code, but finally, the doors slide open. The room is dark inside.

“Jennifer,” Teyla asks tentatively. “Are you all right? Jennifer?

There’s no reply. Beckett hurries into the room, but when the others want to follow, he orders them back.

“Nay, you won’t. Whatever she has, might be contagious. Call Dr. Jones and tell her to put on a hazmat suit.”

“What about you?” Ianto asks. Beckett waves off his concern impatiently.

“Whatever she’s come in contact with, I’ve likely been exposed to it a lot longer.”

“You can’t be sure about that!” McKay protests, but Beckett is having none of it.

“Oh aye, I can. The only research she’s been doing ever since I was found has been about the stuff we found in Michael’s lab. I’ve checked the medical logs,” he pauses and looks at Ianto. “Actually, I was surprised to find that my access code hasnae been deactivated. I thought Mr. Woolsey wouldae insisted.”

“He did,” Ianto replies, faking disinterest very convincingly, if he may say so himself. “Unfortunately, with all the additional paperwork passed down to me, I haven’t found the time to do so yet.”

Beckett is taken aback for a moment. Then he understands and that dimpled smile emerges again.

“Well, thank ye, laddie,” he says. “Now, let’s see what’s wrong with Dr. Keller here, shall we? Stay outside and let Dr. Jones through when he arrives, will ya?”

“I’m here,” Martha enters in the right moment, moving around in her hazmat suit with an ease that speaks of previous experience. Ianto wonders briefly what kind of work she might have done for UNIT but doesn’t even consider asking her about it. He knows she wouldn’t answer.

“What’s wrong?” Martha asks Beckett. “It can’t be you, I see; so who is it?”

“Dr. Keller isn’t answering to radio calls,” Beckett summarizes. “She must be unconscious… or worse.”

“Don’t panic yet,” Martha says calmly. “let’s take a look at her first before we’d jump to conclusions.”

They go into the room together, to the bed on which Dr. Keller is lying on her back with her eyes closed. Beckett kneels down at the side of the bed and peels one of her eyelids open.

“Pupil’s dilated,” he says quietly to Martha, who’s moving a hand-held scanner over Keller’s body. 

It’s of a strange design; Ianto’s almost certain he hasn’t seen anything like it on the digitalized inventory list of Ancient technology. But he could be wrong. He’s only been here for a fortnight, and hasn’t found the time yet to go through every single inventory list – although he’s working steadily towards that goal.

Or Martha has the thing from one of the numerous UNIT depots that aren’t even disclosed to Torchwood. Suddenly Ianto is very grateful that she’s on their side. She’d be a nightmare as an enemy, he thinks.

“Biosignals are all wrong,” Martha says with a frown. “The make-up doesn’t match the medical records of Dr. Keller at all.”

“Meaning?” Ianto asks, refusing to panic, although it’s not an easy thing to do. The reminiscences are just too strong, all of a sudden. 

It’s Beckett who answers. “Meaning that something havtae be changing her from the inside. It doesnae look good at all.”

“In what way?” As long as he’s capable to ask questions, Ianto knows he won’t lose it. That’s a luxury he can’t afford right now; not with an already highly agitated McKay present. He’ll _not_ think of Lisa and what happened to her. He _can_ force his thoughts away from those memories.

“She might have caught some mutated form of the retrovirus,” Beckett explains. “She might be changing into some unknown creature, right now.”

“In such a short time?” Ianto finds that hard to believe. Whatever is happening to Dr. Keller, it’s a biological process, happening from the inside out – unlike the conversion of a human being into a Cyberman.

“Short time?” Beckett echoes. “Son, it’s been two bloody _months_! Colonel Sheppard needed considerably less time to mutate into one monstrous iratus bug in our second year here.”

“I know,” Ianto says calmly; a lot more calmly than he actually feels. “I’ve read the reports. Are we dealing with something similar here?”

“Well, we wouldnae know till we’ve run the right tests,” Beckett replies and rises again. “Let’s start with the blood work and continue from there on, according to the results,” he adds for Martha, who simply nods.

“Carson,” Teyla interrupts. “Step a way from the bed.”

She’s still standing outside the door with Ianto and McKay, but she has the eyes of a born huntress – and those eyes are widening with horror right now. Beckett turns to her in mild confusion. “What?”

“Step away, _now_ ,” Teyla repeats urgently. There’s something in her calm, controlled voice that makes Beckett back away.

“What is it?” McKay asks impatiently.

But Martha has already spotted it. She reaches down, takes hold of the top of the bedclothes and pulls them back. They all stare in horror at the mass of red tendrils covering Dr. Keller’s stomach. It has spread to both sides over her arms and some of the tendrils have gone over the sides of the bed.

“Dear Lord!” Beckett whispers, barely audible. McKay is deathly pale and shaking in his entire body. 

Ianto is suddenly, violently thrown back to the fateful day of the destruction of Torchwood One. He hears the screams of the dying people, the explosions, could smell the smoke and the horrible stench of burning flesh. He sees Lisa again, still the girl he’s fallen in love with under all that metal that’s protruding from his body; feels the heat of the burning jacket on his back as he tries to tear her away from that thrice-damned cyber-conversion unit, to take her to safety.

He must have lost all colour to his face, as he feels the strong hands of Dr. Beckett grabbing him and leading him to a chair outside the isolation chamber.

“Are ye well, lad?” the doctor asks, but Ianto is unable to answer. He’s shaking, a lot worse than McKay, past and present merging before his inner eye into one big nightmarish scenario from Hell. He briefly wonders whether he’s lost it completely and if it would mean they’ll send him back to Earth, too.

Then he feels something soft covering his nose and mouth, and a biting scent – probably ammoniac – clearing his head. He looks up at Martha and nods his thanks. Martha nods back and pats his head in a motherly manner.

“He lived through the destruction of Torchwood Tower,” she says to Beckett, who – having worked for Torchwood Glasgow – understands the significance and nods.

“Are ye feeling better, lad?” he asks gently.

Ianto nods carefully, trying to keep his nausea under control. “Yeah. It’s just the similarities,” he replies.

Martha pushes the ammoniac-smelling cotton pad into his hand. “Use this. It will be better in a moment. And don’t stay here – it’s too much for you, and you’d only be in the way.”

Ianto is only too happy to obey… as soon as his legs choose to cooperate again. He’s not grossed out easily – nobody who’s ever been acquaintanted with Torchwood is – but the sight in that isolation room is simply too much. Perhaps he _should_ have accepted counselling after the fall of Torchwood London, after all.

Martha calls in the nurse on night duty – who happens to be Marie Ko again – and instructs her to escort Ianto out of the Infirmary and put him into a transporter chamber that would take him home. The others exchange worried looks.

“We need to report this,” Beckett says reluctantly… a sentiment that McKay shares.

“Woolsey will lose it completely,” he replies darkly.

“Then perhaps we should call someone else first,” Teyla says, activating her headset. “Colonel Sheppard, this is Teyla.”

“Go ahead,” Sheppard replies at once. His voice, strangely enough, calms both Beckett and McKay down. He does have his faults, but at least he’s reliable, and right now, he’s the one from Atlantis’ dual leadership on whom they can count.

“John, we have a problem,” Teyla tells him.


	11. Quarantined

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 10 – QUARANTINED**

Ianto is still recovering from his minor breakdown when Colonel Sheppard storms into the Infirmary, followed by a soldier wearing the German flag patch and carrying an oversized weapon, which he recognizes from mission report pictures as a Wraith stunner pistol. Sheppard doesn’t even notice him; he runs right to the isolation chamber and stares down at the slowly moving mass of tentacles on Dr. Keller’s stomach with morbid fascination. He must have seen a lot of things in the four years serving on Atlantis, but apparently, this is a first, even for him.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he whispers, his eyes wandering from Keller to Beckett and back again.

“We’re not sure,” Martha replies. “We’ve found her like this.”

“It must have happened last night,” Teyla adds sorrowfully.

“Well,” Sheppard swallows, clearly fighting his nausea, “this is certainly… new. Was there no forewarning?” he looks at Martha. “There must have been a reason that you’ve isolated her in the last couple of days.”

Martha shrugs. “The only weird sign was that on the evening of my arrival she found her hand covered in some kind of goo. We’ve analysed the substance but found no match in the database – and the symptom soon vanished and never returned. As for this,” she gestures at her predecessor,” I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“But _I have_ ,” Beckett says quietly.

All eyes turn to him in shocked surprise. Sheppard is the first to find his voice.

“Where?” he demands… although, knowing where _this_ Carson Beckett spent the mere two years of his existence, the answer isn’t all that hard to guess.

“In one of Michael’s labs,” Beckett answers, according to expectations. “He was conducting some kind of experiment… I’m still not certain _what_ exactly, but he did it in grand style. There were examination tables on both sides of that lab, with people like this… like _her_ on them… in different phases of the experiment, actually. Whatever that experiment was, that is. I havnae had any part of it, so I cannae tell fer sure.”

“We’ve gotta get it off her,” Sheppard looks like he’s getting sick any moment now, and remembering the colonel’s own experience with getting turned into something else, Ianto can understand his motivation. But Beckett shakes his head in concern.

“I’m not so certain that’s such a good idea,” he says. “From what I can tell, the tendrils are attached to her and the bed frame. If we just start ripping them off, we could cause her serious injury.”

Once again, Ianto’s hit with the horrid memories of Canary Wharf; his first, instinctive efforts to tear those cursed machine parts free of Lisa’s body; her heart-wrenching screams of pain; her sobbing, begging him to stop as he’s only making things worse… It’s a memory he often revisits in his nightmares, even after years.

Still, he can understand Sheppard who insists they can’t just leave the young doctor like this. _Nobody_ ought to be left like this: half human, half… something else, no matter how much it would hurt to free them. Intense pain isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person.

Besides, there’s always the possibility of a mercy kill. Ianto’s often berated himself for not having been able to end Lisa’s suffering, then and there at Canary Wharf – or, at least, taking the coward’s way out and allowing the military to do it for him. For _them_. But what he’s read about Sheppard tells him the colonel _will_ be capable of that final, drastic step if necessary. He’s done so before. That fact gives Ianto hope.

“We ain’t just _leaving_ her like this,” Beckett says to Sheppard. “It’s a good thing she’s in the isolation chamber already. We can run a full examination and see what we’re dealing with here,” he looks at Martha apologetically. “If that’s all right with ya, Dr. Jones, that is.”

Martha nods. “Sure, you’re the expert in Wraith medicine – _and_ in Michael’s experiments. Marie and I will assist you in everything.”

“Thanks, love,” Beckett smiles at her, and even though it’s a very tired smile, it’s like unexpected sunshine on a rainy day. Makes him look years younger. “Well, why donnae we start with taking a look at the analysis of that wee sample of goo you’ve been talking about while Marie’s gonna take some blood samples?”

They go over to the lab, leaving Sheppard, McKay and Ianto alone. Atlantis’ head geek is out of his mind with anxiety and can’t take his eyes from the terribly deformed body of the seemingly unconscious Keller.

“Someone has to fill in Mr. Woolsey,” he finally says.

Both he and Sheppard look at Ianto expectantly, but Ianto shakes his head.

“Not alone, I won’t,” he declares. “One of you’s coming with me, and that’s final. You both know the situation – _and_ Mr. Woolsey – a lot better than I do. I won’t be able to provide the necessary data about the possible source of the contamination. I wasn’t even on Atlantis yet when it probably happened.”

“Geek stuff, then,” Sheppard says promptly, his relief obvious. “You go, Rodney.”

McKay’s still watching Dr. Keller’s unresponsive body. He clearly hates the idea to leave her behind, and finally, Ianto has mercy with him. He wouldn’t want to leave Lisa alone, either.

“Actually,” he says smoothly, “I can’t imagine that Dr. McKay would be in the right set of mind to deal with Mr. Woolsey right now. I reckon it’s up to you and me, Colonel.”

Sheppard looks at McKay, accepts the truth of Ianto’s words, and then moves on towards the nearest transporter chamber.

“You owe me one for this, Rodney,” is all he says.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Mr. Woolsey is understandably less than happy about their news. He’s particularly – and vocally – unhappy about the fact that Martha’s kept the true reason of Dr. Keller’s isolation from him. He’s been thinking she got some kind of unknown virus, like the local version of flu or something similar… until now.

“Those things are actually growing out of her body?” he then asks, baffled.

Sheppard nods. “That’s what it looks like, yeah. Like in some kind of cheap horror movie.”

“Only for real,” Ianto adds quietly and shudders.

That clearly makes Woolsey nervous. He’s got used to the fact that few things in two galaxies can faze his personal assistant, and the fact that Ianto’s obviously freaked out doesn’t serve to calm his nerves.

“Is she conscious?” he asks.

Sheppard shakes his head. “Beckett says her brain activity is consistent with somebody in a coma. Which doesn’t mean she wouldn’t wake up any time… she just doesn’t, at the moment.”

Woolsey furrows his brows. “Doctor Beckett is not on active duty.”

“Perhaps not,” Sheppard allows. “But he was the first one there, and recognized the symptoms at once. He says he’s seen something like this before.”

“While he was a prisoner,” Woolsey says. It’s not a question. Sheppard shrugs.

“He was forced to work for Michael for two years. Nobody knows this stuff better than he does.”

"Besides,” Ianto adds, “Dr. Jones is with him. She’s seen lots of weird extraterrestrial lifeforms and knows what she’s doing.”

“Apparently, informing _me_ about my CMO – well, the _former_ CMO of Atlantis – being down with a potentially lethal contamination that could endanger the whole city doesn’t count for her as important,” Woolsey retorts acerbically. Ianto shrugs.

“It’s standard UNIT policy,” he explains. “Medical personnel don’t bother the brass until they know what they’re dealing with. As a rule, they have a great deal more independence than your personnel here. But I’m sure Dr. Jones will learn the different protocol of Atlantis, eventually. She’s very… flexible in her ways.”

“I’m already feeling so much better,” Woolsey replies, dripping with sarcasm. Then he pulls himself together. “Well, why don’t we relocate to the Observation Room, where we can watch the medical team on the cameras?”

Sheppard and Ianto find that a good idea and follow him out of the office.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
While they’re waiting for Marie Ko and Dr. Nguyen to finish the analysis on Dr. Keller’s blood sample, Martha calls up the results of the analysis made of the sample of goo taken a few days earlier.

“I just can’t make heads and tails of this,” she ruefully admits. “The structure is similar to a polysaccharide, but it also contains organometallic compounds.”

“Hmmm,” Beckett studies the digital representation of the stuff’s molecular structure on the screen. “Looks like a biopolymer to me.”

“It _is_ a biopolymer,” Martha says, clearly frustrated. “It just doesn’t look completely organic. Hell, we don’t even know if the… the goo really came from her body, or if she’s just touched something and got it smeared over her hand, not even realizing what’s happened, until it became liquid… or thickened enough to become visible. Whichever the case might have been.”

“Possible… but not bloody likely,” Beckett says. “I’d rather say that was where it all started, a few nights ago.”

“But the substance never showed again while she’s been in isolation,” Martha points out. Beckett shrugs.

“It doesnae matter, love. We donnae know a thing about the incubation period and what the symptoms may be in the different phases. I never actually _saw_ the beginning of this process. The… the _victims_ in that lab were all way into the cocoon phase.”

“That’s what you think these tentacles are?” Martha asks, her face turning grey by the thought. “Is she developing some sort of cocoon?”

Beckett nods. “That’s what I’m thinking, aye. Eventually, the tentacles will wind themselves all over her body… possibly over the bed, too… and harden into some kind of chrysalis. At least, that was what happened to those poor buggers in Michael’s lab, and this seems to be the same thing. I hope it isnae, but it looks very similar.”

“So, what are we gonna do now?” Martha asks.

“Firstly, we’ll wait for the blood work analysis to see if she actually does have a pathogen in her blood,” Beckett says. “Then… then we’ll have to take tissue samples from the tendrils themselves and compare their molecular structure to that of the goo. If the structure is the same, or at least similar…”

“… then we’ll know we’re dealing with the same thing, and that this is how the transformation starts,” Martha finishes for him. “But doctor, are you really planning to cut off a piece from one of those things? Wouldn’t that put Jennifer at risk?”

“At great risk, actually,” Beckett admits with a sigh. “But we donnae have a choice, love. We need _answers_ if we wanna help her – _if_ we can, that is.”

“I like the way you say _love_ ,” Martha grins. “It’s just so… so _cute_ , you know. And the way you call grown men _son_. Or _lad_.”

Beckett shrugs tiredly. “It’s a Scottish thing, lassie. I might be just an inferior copy of the original Carson Beckett, but I’m still Scottish and proud of it.”

“You _aren’t_ inferior, so stop the self-flagellation at once,” Martha chides him. “It doesn’t become you; it’s like fishing for compliments.”

“I’m _not_ …” Beckett protests, but Martha interrupts him.

“I _know_. I just want you to understand that no matter how you’ve come into existence – or _when_ – you’re still an excellent doctor… _and_ you’re our only hope in this situation.” 

She unexpectedly breaks into a wide grin. “If Jack Harkness were here, he’d add a flirty remark about the best pair of blue eyes (well, second-best for him perhaps, after Ianto’s) and about those killer dimples, but I’m a happily engaged girl and don’t want to complicate my life. Especially with my fiancé being in a different galaxy.”

Beckett shakes his head in regret. “Why is it that the best ones are always taken?”

“Or gay… or both,” Martha adds; then she looks up and sees Marie enter the office, with a computer tablet in her hands. “Oh, Marie, good! That was fast. Thanks.”

Marie hands her the results of Keller’s blood work, and Martha and Beckett study them… for a long time.

“Well,” Beckett finally says, “that answers _one_ question. It seems we’re gonna need those tissue samples, after all.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It is quite the crowd that has gathered in the Observation Room, waiting in concern for the doctors to begin the examination of their horribly changed colleague. Sheppard’s entire team has come, of course – despite the recent changes in leadership, they still have a privileged status but so have quite a few long-term expedition members. Major Lorne is there, clutching to his coffee thermos but otherwise stone-faced and radiating unshakable calm, and so are Doctors Zelenka and Simpson… even Miko Kusanagi has come and is smiling at Ianto shyly. 

As the newly re-established head of security, Bates wouldn’t let the chance to keep a sharp eye on the events slip through his fingers. After all, this is a serious security risk, even if the others choose to ignore that fact because of their emotional attachment to Dr. Keller. Ianto has the feeling that Bates doesn’t allow himself to get emotionally attached to his charges for exactly such reasons. In a crisis, that can prove a life-saver, for the entire expedition… even if it makes the man himself lonely.

Bates is the only one, aside from Ianto, who watches the monitors diligently. The others are chatting or arguing, drinking coffee (the regular stuff, if their grimaces are any indication, but Ianto can’t be bothered to serve them anything better right now) or, in Simpson’s case, smoking on the outer balcony. 

Dr. Kusanagi, seated on a bench in the furthest corner, is folding something in her lap, with practiced fingers, barely looking at her work. Ianto risks a glance from the corner of his eye and recognizes the shape: it’s a paper crane, made of some waste paper, as no-one on Atlantis would use good, clean paper for such things; it’s still of great value. Still, the shape of the origami figurine gives away the meaning behind Miko’s work.

Tosh did tell Ianto about this ancient Japanese custom a few years ago. If you fold a thousand paper cranes, a wish of yours will be fulfilled. Dr. Kusanagi’s wish isn’t hard to guess, given the situation, but Ianto does wonder how many cranes she’s already made.

Then he forces his attention back to the monitors and sees Beckett, Martha and a med team – all wearing hazmat suits – entering the isolation chamber.

“Mr. Woolsey,” he says quietly, “they’re about to begin now.”

The others quickly gather in front of the monitors, watching the med team at work. At first, there seems to be a little confusion about who should do what, but then Martha ushers Beckett closer to the bed.

“I’m not such an experienced surgeon as you are,” she says. “It’s better if you do it… safer for us all, I reckon.”

Beckett hesitates for a moment, then nods in agreement. “Aye, perhaps it’s better so,” he decides. “I’m gonna try to cut some of the thinner strands. Scalpel.”

One of the medics hands him a scalpel, and he nods absent-mindedly, his focus already on the task at his hands. Holding a thin tendril in place with a clamp, he cuts a piece of it free.

“Here we go,” he murmurs, then puts the tendril into a waiting receptacle held by Martha, and calls out to Marie. “Nurse?”

Marie checks the monitors. “No change, doctor.”

Beckett nods again and looks at Martha. “We need to get that analysed right away.”

With a nod of her own, Martha turns and leaves. At the same moment, Keller’s heart rate increases and an alarm sounds.

“Doctor!” Marie calls. “Blood pressure’s dropping. Pulse as well.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Beckett curses under his breath. “She’s crashing. Administer five milligrams of atropine.”

The alarm continues to sound, and Beckett is getting visibly nervous. Perhaps he realizes for the first time that in this incarnation he hasn’t treated any critical patients yet. All his memories and experiences in human medicine belong to a different person.

“My God,” he murmurs. “Come on.” 

Martha comes back running, just when Marie administers the dose to Keller. A few very tense moments later the alarm stops and the rhythms on the monitors become more regular. The group in the Observation Room releases their collective breath. Beckett, too, seems almost inordinately relieved.

“There she is,” he comments softly. Then he looks up, right into the camera. “I’m sorry. I don’t dare make another incision. It could kill her within moments.”

“So much for cutting her loose,” Ronon Dex states dryly in the Observation Room, and Ianto gets the suspicion that Dr. McKay probably isn’t the only person with a strong personal interest in Jennifer Keller. He makes a mental note to find out more about this strange little triangle later, when the current crisis is over.

Mr. Woolsey touches his headset. “Doctor Beckett, I’d like a word.”

After a moment of hesitation, Beckett hands the scalpel and clamp to Marie, turns and leaves the room, Martha following him out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They come up to the Observation Room, still wearing the hazmat suit, having only taken off the helmets. They’re already deep in discussion when they enter.

“I don’t know how we ought to proceed,” Martha says glumly. “These… things seem to be part of her now; cutting them off would be the same as vivisecting her.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get her out,” Beckett replies confidently. “Once I get back to the lab, I...”

“Doctor,” Woolsey interrupts, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but our Earth dial-out is in…” he looks at Ianto in askance.

“In one hour exactly, sir,” Ianto replies, checking his stopwatch, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Martha has to suppress a grin, her memories of Torchwood Cardiff resurfacing. Beckett, however, isn’t so easily distracted from his chosen path.

“I’ll take a pass on this one, if you don’t mind,” he declares firmly. “If it wasn’t for Doctor Keller, I’d still be locked in that bloody stasis chamber – possibly forever. I owe her to at least try to get her out of that… that _thing_.”

“Carson,” Martha says gently, calling him by his given name for the first time,” be reasonable. Jennifer’s report clearly says that while your condition is stabilised, you’ve still suffered severe damage to your internal organs. You need to be in a hospital bed yourself, not running a medical investigation. You need treatment that I can’t provide here. The medical section of UNIT can. But for that, you need to go home. Please.”

Beckett smiles at her gently, truly touched by her concern.

“I’ll be fine, love,” he replies. “The first sign of trouble, I’ll step aside, I promise. And I _will_ go home, as soon as we’ve solved this problem. Right now, though, you need me here. I’m the only one with a real chance to deal with this… this transformation.”

“You’re convinced, then, that this has something to do with Michael?” Woolsey asks. Beckett gives him a bland look.

“Well, it isnae a case of the hives, is it?” he replies; then he turns to Martha. “I suggest that we check on our patient; then get some rest till the tissue analysis is completed. We’re gonna have a very long day.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
After the doctors have left, the people remaining in the Observation Room exchange uncomfortable looks. It’s Ronon Dex who finally puts into words what they’re all thinking.

“What if they can’t get her out?” he asks. “I mean, I know what Beckett is capable of – I owe him endless thanks for the chance of being here and free in the first place – but not even he can find a cure for everything. What if he fails?”

“Right now, he’s our best hope,” Woolsey answers evasively.

Sheppard raises an eyebrow. “You’re not sending him back, huh?”

“Well, he _is_ the closest thing to an expert we have,” Woolsey’s tone is almost defensive, and Sheppard can’t resist twisting the knife.

“It’s not exactly by the book,” he comments.

“Don’t get used to it,” Woolsey returns flatly, and people look at the floor to hide their grins.

“We’ve ignored a very important aspect of this whole problem so far,” Bates says, speaking for the first time, and somehow Ianto knows what the man’s going to say. It’s a thought that has already occurred to him; he nods in understanding.

“The potential risk for Atlantis,” he says. He’s new here, he can afford to voice the unpleasant truth, and Bates is visibly grateful for the support. McKay, on the other hand, glares at them in a decidedly hostile manner.

“What do you mean?” he demands. “She’s isolated, isn’t she?”

“Which is a good thing but might not be enough,” Ianto points out calmly. “Right now, she’s still in the process of transformation. Still showing minimal brain function, or so the doctors say. But who knows what she’ll become once the process is finished? What she’ll be capable of?”

“Jennifer would never harm us or the city,” McKay protests.

“Of course not,” Bates says. “But when the transformation is completed, will she still be Dr. Keller?”

“So you suggest that we shoot her now as a pre-emptive measure?” McKay riposts heatedly. “We’ve dealt with such events before. We didn’t shoot Sheppard, either, when he was about to turn into an iratus bug, did we?”

“One more day and you perhaps wouldn’t have had any other choice,” Sheppard comments dryly. “I was barely myself at the end.”

“Yeah, but you _were_ yourself, and that’s what counts,” McKay prompts. “Deep in the inside, you were yourself; just like Jennifer is herself.”

“The process was _not_ completed, Rodney,” Sheppard reminds him.

“Neither is it in Jennifer’s case,” McKay replies. “And she’s a doctor; she’ll understand what’s happening to her. She’ll fight the changes with all her might.”

“Forgive me, Dr. McKay, but that’s bollocks, and you know it,” Ianto intervenes, hating to be the one to speak it out loud, but it _has_ to be done. The disaster with the half-converted Lisa has taught him how illusionary – and how dangerous – such beliefs are. “Once such a process has started, it can’t be stopped – or slowed down – by sheer willpower. If no outside help comes, the changes _will_ eventually take over completely, and the person you knew and loved will be irreversibly gone, leaving nothing but a monster behind.”

“What would _you_ know about this?” McKay snaps. “You’re just a paper pusher!”

“Rodney,” Zelenka warns him quietly. “Tread carefully. You’re walking on thin ice here.”

“I’d say I’m _the_ expert in such things,” Ianto replies, more calmly than he actually feels. Once again, he’s fighting the memories of the Cyberwoman on rampage in the Hub; the memory of his own death and Jack bringing him back to life. “Like you, once I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to heal someone half-transformed into an alien monster. Several people died horribly, and in the end, I had to watch my colleagues put down that which once had been the girl I loved more than life like… like a rabid dog. I didn’t want to accept that she – _it_ – wasn’t my girl anymore… and innocents died because of that. Those deaths will weigh on my conscience all my life – do _you_ truly wish to carry such a burden, just because you’re unwilling to accept the harsh facts?”

There’s a heavy silence in the Observation Room, but the looks remain mostly accusing. Only Bates nods firmly, and Sheppard seems thoughtful. Ianto is suddenly very tired. These people are all so much older than him, some of them could almost be his father, and yet he feels very old, burnt-out and disillusioned in the face of their optimistic views. He needs fresh air, and he needs a change of scenery. Desperately.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Woolsey, I’ll be in my office,” he announces before leaving. “I’ve got reports to finish for the SGC and UNIT and some personal messages to prepare, and I only have half an hour to do so.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Hours later, Ianto finally feels strong enough to go down to the Infirmary again. He’s sent a message to Rhiannon and her family, using the regular dial-in from Earth. He sent another one to Jack, with all the encoded details he felt safe to include, but without mentioning that he most likely won’t be returning to Torchwood. And he’s sent the reports to the Crown, the SGC and UNIT. 

He’s brewed a thermos of his best coffee for Martha and Beckett, and now places the thermos on the desk between them. He acknowledges their grateful smiles with a wordless nod and merges with the shadows again, not wanting to bother them during their work.

Currently, they’re working on the medical computers, comparing the molecular structures of the different samples taken from Dr. Keller. After a while, Dr. Beckett suddenly stops the changing images and magnifies the one that has caught his interest.

“There,” he says. “I found something in Jennifer’s blood sample.”

Martha abandons her own computer and leans over his shoulder. “Oh? What is it?”

Beckett’s eyes are practically glued to the screen. “It’s some kind of alien pathogen, so far unidentified. I’m checking it against the database; perhaps the Ancients had run into it on occasion.”

“Is it possible that Jennifer is turning into one of those hybrids?” Martha asks, her concern obvious. Beckett shakes his head.

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve seen several variations of _that_ conversion process; it wasnae anything like this.”

“That’s a relief,” Martha comments. “Still, it’s _gotta_ be something to do with Michael. According to the mission logs, she hasn’t been off-world since she helped rescue Colonel Sheppard’s team from that lab.”

Beckett nods. “That’s what I was thinking. Of course, if that’s where she came in contact with the pathogen...”

“… Colonel Sheppard’s team _and_ the rescue team may have been exposed as well,” Martha finishes for him. Beckett nods again.

“Well, aye, it’s a possibility. I’m gonna need blood samples from everyone who was on that planet, including Rodney.”

“Won’t he just _love_ that?” Martha says sarcastically, then she looks up as Marie comes in.

“Doctor…” she begins.

“Yes,” Martha and Beckett reply simultaneously; for a moment, Beckett glances at Martha, then turns back to Marie.

“Yes, love, what is it?”

“She’s awake,” Marie tells him simply. 

It takes a moment to sink in. But when it does, both doctors jump to their feet to put on the hazmat suits again. Ianto follows them to the isolation room, peering in from the outside through the glass wall. The sight is beyond disturbing. The entire bed is now covered with tendrils. The mass is much thicker than before and covers Keller’s entire body. Only her head is free, although tendrils cover the rest of the pillow. 

Other strands drape down all sides of the bed. Many smaller tendrils have grown out and covered all the equipment around the bed, and several large ones have spread out in various directions across the floor to the walls. It looks as if the… _thing_ , whatever it is, would spread out, slowly conquering the room; ready to branch out to other parts of the city, given enough time.

Ianto spots movement at his side, and he isn’t the least surprised when he recognizes McKay. The head scientist demonstratively avoids his look, but Ianto doesn’t blame him. _He_ wasn’t willing to listen to Jack, either; wasn’t willing to accept the fact that there was indeed no help, no cure for Lisa. That what little of Lisa still lingered in the Cyberwoman, was doomed to be deleted, forever, as soon as the cyber-consciousness grew strong enough to take her over.

McKay is in the same phase of denial right now, and it’s only understandable that he hates the person who’s confronted him with the harsh truth. Ianto leaves him to his personal misery and activates his headset to hear what the doctors are talking about inside the isolation room. In theory, he shouldn’t be able to listen in, but he’s found out that for some reason, Atlantis allows him access to systems that remain inaccessible for most other people. Sometimes he wonders about the reason, but then he shrugs and accepts his good luck. He’s not one to look a gift horse into the mouth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the isolation room, Dr. Keller opens her eyes and stars down herself in terror.

“What’s happening to me?” she asks Martha, who’s leaning over her, ignoring the tendrils.

“We’re not entirely sure,” Martha admits. “Dr. Beckett things it’s some kind of a cocoon. Are you in any pain?”

Keller shakes her head. “I… I can’t feel _anything_ ,” she whispers, realizing that fact for the first time. “I can’t move. Why can’t I move?”

“It’s the tendrils,” Martha explains. “They’ve completely immobilized you. We’re trying to find a way to remove them, but… it’s not gonna be easy.”

But Keller isn’t listening to her. She looks around suspiciously, as much as she can still move her head. “Who else is here?” She’s not looking either at Martha or at Beckett.

“No-one,” Martha soothes her. “It’s just Carson and me.”

“No, no…” Keller protests weakly. “I can hear… voices. Strange voices… inside my head.”

“You’re exhausted,” Martha says gently. “You need rest. Why don’t you try to sleep a little?”

“I don’t wanna go to sleep,” Keller replies. “I’m afraid I won’t wake up… not as _myself_ , that is.”

Martha’s heart goes out to her, but she’s not the kind of woman who’d tell white lies. “That is, sadly, a distinct possibility,” she admits. Keller looks up into her face, half-obscured by the plastic of her hazmat suit helmet.

“What have you found?” she asks.

“A pathogen,” Martha replies. “Some kind of alien organism. Carson found it in your blood sample. We’re trying to figure out what it is and how to kill it.”

Keller finally meets her gaze. “My hand… that’s how it’s all begun, isn’t it?”

“It’s a possibility,” Martha admits. “When the analysis on the tissue sample is finished, we’ll know more.”

But Keller isn’t listening to her anymore. Her eyes drift closed again, and she falls asleep. Martha and Beckett exchange worried looks.

“Well,” Beckett then says. “While we’re waiting for the results, we can get those blood samples from everyone who was on M2S-445,” he looks up to McKay. “Including you, Rodney.”

McKay rolls his eyes and groans plaintively. “Oh, great! I’m to fall in the hands of the voodoo doctor again!”

“Marie and I can do it,” Martha says. “You should take your own advice and have some rest, Carson. You’re dead on your feet as you are. You’re of no use for us if you’re collapsing in the middle of an examination.”

“Aye, there is _that_ ,” Beckett admits ruefully. “All right, love. I’ll see you in the morning, then – not that it’s so far away.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the morning meeting, held in Mr. Woolsey’s office, it’s a somewhat better rested but very concerned Carson Beckett who explains the rest of the command staff the newest results. They’re not good. The changes appear to be affecting Dr. Keller’s mind.

“She claims to be hearing voices, like there’s someone else in the room with her,” Martha adds. “However, neither Dr. Beckett nor I could hear anything… and neither did any medical personnel.”

Woolsey has another problem on his mind. “How fast is this… _thing_ growing?” he asks.

“Currently it’s doubling its mass every couple of hours,” Beckett answers, accepting the computer tablet a medic brings him. “Thank you. We’re still trying to find a way to separate her from the tendrils, but no luck, so far.”

“This isn’t just about Doctor Keller any more,” Bates interrupts. “I need to know if this thing’s gonna be a threat to the base, in order to establish countermeasures.”

Beckett looks up from the tablet, his eyes haunted. “I’d say that’s a definite yes.”

“What do you mean?” Woolsey is slightly panicking but tries to hold himself together.

“Colonel Sheppard, Ronon, Rodney – _everyone_ who was on M2S-445. They all tested positive. Whatever this is, they’ve _all_ got it.”

Woolsey’s shoulders slump ever so slightly; he looks at Ianto. “How many people are we talking about, Mr. Jones?”

Ianto calls up the mission report from memory. It’s a bit pretentious, he knows, but it’s definitely faster than searching the database. Besides, he’s a young man, and young men sometimes like to impress.

“Fourteen people altogether, sir,” he replies. “Including Colonel Sheppard’s team, Major Lorne and his team, Captain Vega, Lt. Edison, Mr. Rivers – _and_ Colonel Carter.”

Woolsey digests the information for a moment. “That’s two-third of our ranking military officers,” he realizes.

Ianto nods. “Yes, sir. They all will have to be confined to their quarters, until the doctors can determine whether they are contagious or not. We’ll also have to send an unscheduled data burst to the SGC. Colonel Carter will need to be quarantined, too.”

“That won’t be enough,” Bates says. “Atlantis has protocols for situations like this.”

Woolsey turns to him. “What would you suggest, Chief?”

“We have to establish emergency lockdown protocols,” Bates replies promptly. “No Gate travel, in or out, until we know for certain what to expect. No visiting ships, no trip back to Earth through the Gate. If the situation gets out of control – and unfortunately, there’s a real possibility for that – we’ll have to engage the self-destruction device, in order to keep this contagion from spreading.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” Woolsey asks, paling considerably.

Bates shakes his head. “No, sir. “If we can’t get this thing under control, it will spread uncontrollably to other planets – we’ve seen how easily it infiltrated Atlantis, using our own people as carriers. We can’t be responsible for unleashing such a terror over an entire galaxy… or _two_ , for that matter. We need to warn the SGC about the possible consequences, too, so that they can lock down the base as well.”

“Will they?” Ianto asks. Bates nods.

“I hope so. I’d be breathing easier if General O’Neill would still be in command of the SGC, but let’s hope the doctors there can persuade General Landry about the necessity of lockdown procedures. Earth is even more endangered by this than we are. At least Atlantis is relatively isolated from the rest of this galaxy.”

“I see,” Woolsey sighs, and then looks at Ianto. “Mr. Jones, you do have the necessary clearance. Would you see it done?”

“Of course, sir,” Ianto rises from his seat. “If that’s all, I’ll go to the Control Room and enter the codes into the main computer. _After_ we’ve alerted the SGC, that is, since Gate activity will be blocked by the emergency lockdown.”

“And _I’ll_ see that all contaminated personnel is confined and watched,” Bates adds, rising as well.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Woolsey replies tiredly. “Do it.”


	12. Lockdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major Teldy is, in fact, a canon character. She and her all-female team appear in the 5th season Atlantis episode “Whispers”. She was played by Christina Cox, just so that you can get the visuals.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 11 – LOCKDOWN**

When Sheppard’s team – and all those who were accompanying them on the planet with one of Michael’s labs – get confined to their quarters, the population of Atlantis understandably reacts nervously. For the lack of a therapist – they haven’t got a new one since Dr. Heightmeyer’s death – people turn to their expedition leader for reassurance. Considering Mr. Woolsey’s lack of people skills, the anxious newbies usually land by Ianto. He spends the whole morning explaining, soothing, trying to push things into the right perspective – which, considering that he hasn’t slept for two days, is becoming increasingly difficult. At lunchtime, he’s completely drained and all too happy to meet Martha in the mess hall.

“Now I understand how Jack must have felt sometimes, with us constantly nagging him to explain things and to tell us what to do,” he declares, collapsing at one of the empty tables and eyeing the local version of lemon chicken with interest. 

It’s the first time since his arrival that the kitchen staff would prepare anything like that; now that McKay can’t come to the mess hall, his citrus allergy doesn’t have to be taken into consideration. Not that anybody would force him to eat something he can’t, but he’d protest loudly to the mere presence of lemon, and so the chefs rather accommodate than argue with him.

“Mmm-hm… the burdens of leadership,” Martha agrees, trying her own portion of lemon chicken and closing her eyes for a moment in pleasure. “Hey, this is actually good!”

“Sergeant Stackhouse has kitchen duty,” Ianto tells him, “which means his wife has a say in the choice of spices. Always a good thing, I’m told… if you like Athosian cuisine, that is.”

“I could get used to it,” Martha replies, and for a while they eat in silence. Having lunch with a friend is a welcome moment of normalcy that Ianto greatly appreciates.

“Have you managed to find out how they all got the infection?” he then asks.

“The current assumption is that this alien pathogen was present somewhere in the lab they raided; probably as part of one of Michael’s experiments,” Martha explains. “When the building was destroyed, the pathogen was released and contaminated every member of the team.”

She spots Bates entering the mess hall and waves him to their table. The security chief visibly cheers up at that and gladly accepts the invitation, giving the napkin tucked into Ianto’s collar an amused look. Ianto ignores him. He’s been already teased so much for using his napkin as a bib that he’s become immune against such reactions. Besides, keeping his suit clean is more important.

“I don’t understand,” he says to Martha while Bates dumps his tray onto the table. “If the pathogen was gonna spread to the general population, it would have already happened, right?”

Martha nods. “Theoretically, yes. That’s why both Dr. Beckett and I are now fairly confident that it isn’t contagious.”

“Why are we still on emergency lockdown, then, with all those people confined to their quarters?” Bates asks. Martha shrugs and digs into her salad.

“Firstly, we’re _fairly confident_ , not one hundred per cent sure,” she says. “Secondly… you _have_ seen what’s happening to Dr. Keller, haven’t you?”

“You mean the same thing could happen to Sheppard, McKay and all the others?” Bates clarifies. “Why aren’t they showing any of the symptoms, then?”

“They’re not showing them _yet_ ,” Ianto says with emphasis, and Martha nods.

“That’s correct. There could be a number of random physiological reasons why it started with Jennifer, but that’s no guarantee that it’s not going to happen to the rest. It’s possible that some of them won’t develop the symptoms at all, but they’ll still remain _carriers_. Which is a different sort of risk for the entire city. It can also be that the pathogen remains inactive for indefinite time before kicking into high gear. It could be a matter of days… or _years_. I’m sorry, but there’s no way to tell. We still don’t know nearly enough about this organism.”

“It could also be that the pathogen waits till _one_ person completes the transformation before starting with the next one,” Ianto says slowly, not sure where _that_ thought has come from.

Bates frowns at him. “That would require intelligence. Are we dealing with a sentient virus here?” The thought clearly doesn’t make him happy, and Ianto shares the sentiment.

“I don’t think so,” Martha replies. “Nor is intelligence, as we understand it, required… just some highly intelligent programming.”

“You mean it’s a nanovirus?” Bates asks, now thoroughly confused.

Martha shakes her head. “No, it’s definitely a parasitic organism – but one that is able to fool the human body and make it develop organs it’s never been meant to bring forth. Like some sort of biological – or chemical – computer. Considering that the Wraith use semi-organic technology, it actually makes sense.”

“In that case,” Bates says slowly, “you should perhaps consult someone who’s thoroughly familiar with Wraith technology. It might prove helpful.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And so Dr. Zelenka is drafted into the medical investigation. Less than an hour later Dr. Kusanagi is called in, too. Ianto dutifully delivers coffee to Zelenka and the med team; then he makes tea for Miko and Dr. Beckett, who’re too important for the research to be left at a disadvantage… and besides, he likes them. Then he returns to his office and lays the security camera feed onto his screen. He doesn’t want to bother the geeks, but he does need to know what’s going on.

He isn’t the least surprised when Bates joins him. The ex-Marine is very good at his job; it would be naïve to expect that he wouldn’t discover Ianto hacking into the surveillance system. That he doesn’t make any remark concerning Ianto’s indiscretion shows a high level of trust and acceptance, and Ianto appreciates it for the rare thing it is.

“Have they figured out yet how the pathogen causes the physiological changes?” Bates asks, pulling up a chair for himself, without waiting for an invitation.

Ianto shakes his head. “No; but they’ve completed the analysis of the tissue sample extracted from one of those tendrils,” he says. “The molecular structure is the same as by the goo they’ve analysed a few days ago.”

“Meaning?” Bates is getting impatient. Ianto shrugs.

“Meaning that the appearance of the goo was, in fact, the first symptom. They’ll regularly check on the others for the appearance of the goo, as it clearly marks the imminent outbreak of… whatever it is that Dr. Keller has.”

“And what kind of stuff _is_ it then?” Bates asks. 

Ianto can’t withstand the temptation and replies with a bland smile. “It’s a biopolymer, with organometallic compounds mixed in.”

Bates gives him a quelling look. “Very funny. Care to translate that for a stupid ex-jarhead without a medical degree?”

“I believe Dr. Beckett is just about to do exactly that,” Ianto turns up the volume of the security monitor, so that they can hear the discussion in the Control Room, where the doctors have arrived to inform Mr. Woolsey.

“It’s like the material an insect or a crustacean uses to form its shell,” Beckett is saying. “At first, it’s soft and pliable and then it becomes tough and leathery, and eventually it hardens into an incredible density, resistant to heat, pressure and even radiation.”

“Yes, yes,” Zelenka interjects, his voice tired and his accent more prominent than usual. “Is like hull of Wraith ship.”

“Aye, exactly that,” Beckett agrees.

Woolsey looks at them… well, _thunderstruck_ would probably be the closest description. “What are you saying?”

Zelenka shrugs and pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose absent-mindedly. “Well, we always knew that Wraith ships were organic in design, right?”

“They were essentially grown instead of constructed,” Martha explains, seeing Woolsey’s blank look.

“We’ve just never witnessed it before,” Zelenka adds simply.

“Are you telling me that a Hive ship is growing inside that isolation room?” Woolsey’s fear is palpable, even via security monitor, and Ianto understands it all too well. Especially considering the chance that a dozen other people might turn into Wraith ships in the indeterminate future.

“Actually,” Zelenka says darkly, “it’s no longer just _inside_ isolation room.” He’s dropping his articles again, which, as Ianto has learned, is a sign of extreme exhaustion by him. Small wonder, as he has to do McKay’s work as well. “It doesn’t register on our life signs detector but once we knew what we were looking for, we calibrated our internal sensors and we were able to pick it up.”

He pulls up an image of the isolation room and surrounding area on the screen. Ianto rearranges the focus of the security camera. The sight makes him shudder. Rampant alien technology on the loose is one of his prominent nightmares.

“It has penetrated walls and floors, consuming and converting material as it goes,” Zelenka explains grimly.

“How far has it spread?” Woolsey asks almost tonelessly.

Zelenka expands the area shown on the image. “Well, it’s gone down three levels already _and_ it has attached itself to electrical system, siphoning off power as it goes. This seems to have accelerated its growth significantly.”

Bates looks at Ianto. “That would verify your theory about the pathogen waiting for _one_ transformation to be completed,” he says. “Perhaps the process requires so much energy that only one at a time is possible, given the resources available.”

Ianto nods unhappily. “I _hate_ being right in such things. Unfortunately, I often am.”

“Well, you used to work for Torchwood – what do you expect after that?” Bates replies, and it’s all too true. Torchwood teaches one to always expect the worst possible outcome… which is, most of the time, the correct assumption.

“How do we stop it?” Woolsey is asking in the meantime.

Beckett shrugs helplessly. “Well, that’s the part we’re still trying to figure out.”

“We could cut off power,” Zelenka suggests. “That _should_ slow it down quite a bit.”

“ _Should_?” Woolsey repeats, clearly not satisfied. It’s Zelenka’s turn to shrug now.

“There are no guarantees, Mr. Woolsey,” he admits. “This is new for us all.”

Woolsey closes his eyes for a moment. “Very well. Do it… and pray that it works.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the next moment, the screens and lights in the Observation Room go out, and the security monitors go dark. Bates takes his leave to strengthen security presence around the most important locations, and Ianto goes down to the Infirmary to check on Dr. Keller’s status, as he likes to put it, the old-fashioned way: with his eyes.

The isolation room is almost dark, save from the faint daylight coming in through the windows. Still, despite the semi-darkness, he can see Dr. Keller lying in the midst of a huge nest of tendrils and tentacles, like some gargantuan Medusa. Many more tendrils than before have now snaked out from the bed, across the floor and up the walls. Ianto shudders involuntarily.

“A nightmarish scenario, isn’t it?” a voice asks, and he recognizes Dr. Simpson by the lingering scent of her cigarettes, without having to look back. “Boy, am I glad that I wasn’t part of that rescue mission. I mean, dying at any given day is something I got used to here – besides, I’m and Army brat and prepared for such things – but dying like that…” She, too, shudders and reaches into her pocket for a packet of cigarettes.

“Non-smoking area, doctor,” Ianto reminds her gently.

“Julia,” she corrects. “If we’re about to die anyway, we can as well die on first-name basis,” she gives him one of those wry little smiles. “You look like you could use a smoke yourself. Caffeine no longer working for you?”

“Not after fifty-two hours without sleep,” Ianto replies, following her out to the balcony. Once there, he refuses the offered cigarette, though. “As I said, I don’t want to pick up the habit. I’ll just stand here and sniffle.”

He delivers the silly line with such a grave face that Simpson has to laugh. She lits a cigarette, and in the daylight Ianto can see that her face is pale and gaunt, and there are dark rings under her eyes. She isn’t a pretty woman on a good day – and _this_ is definitely not one of _those_ days – but the bright intelligence in her eyes and her sheer inexhaustible energy make her attractive somehow. Not the kind of attractive Jack would be drawn to, for sure, but Ianto does find intelligence very appealing.

“You know what?” she says. “We’ll share. That way, I can cut back on the nicotine, and you aren’t picking up smoking again… well, not really.”

Her argumentation is false, of course, but at the moment Ianto doesn’t mind. Suddenly, he desperately wants a smoke, as caffeine and cold showers just won’t keep a person up and running infinitely. He shouldn’t fall back to the old habit of working around the clock again; but just like back on Earth, the really big crisises never take the limits of a human body into consideration.

He accepts the cigarette and breathes in the smoke deeply before giving it back.

“Jack would say this is a deeply intimate act, not to share with a stranger,” he jokes tiredly. Simpson’s eyes begin to sparkle with curiosity.

“Is this Jack your… your significant other?” she asks. “The one you’ve mentioned before?”

Ianto shrugs. “He… well, used to be. He also used to be my boss. We’re on a hiatus of some sort while I’m on Atlantis. Trying to figure out if this thing between us has a real chance or not.”

Usually, he isn’t one to discuss his private life with anyone (unless it’s Martha), but for some reason, he trusts Simpson. Besides, she’s a good listener.

“Strange,” she says after a moment of silence. “I wouldn’t have taken you for gay… and I’m seldom wrong in that area.” There’s no judgement in her tone, just surprise.

“I’m not,” Ianto replies. “Well, not entirely. It’s… complicated.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she replies. “You fall for a person, regardless of their gender, right? Like for that girl who was transformed, the one you told McKay about… or this Jack character.”

“Oh, trust me,” Ianto says dryly, taking the cigarette again. “When it comes to Jack Harkness, things are _always_ complicated.”

She laughs, and for the first time since they’ve known each other, there’s a flirtatious gleam in her eyes. “Is he jealous?”

Ianto just shrugs. It’s really hard to tell with Jack, and he doesn’t want to start explaining their complex relationship… or non-relationship… whatever. Someone who never met Jack wouldn’t understand anyway. Simpson’s grin grows in width and becomes decidedly evil.

“So, if he could see us now, sharing a smoke, what would he think just how intimate we have become?” she asks.

Ianto tilts his head to the side. “Depends,” he, too, is flirting now, and it feels surprisingly good, even though he has no intentions whatsoever concerning Dr. Simpson.

“On what?” she asks, her eyes sparkling. Ianto smiles.

“How long it’s been since he got laid and how desperate _we_ look to _get_ laid,” he replies airily.

Simpson gives him a coy look that is clearly just a joke. “Is that an offer, Mr. Jones?”

“I thought we agreed on first names,” Ianto replies, and though neither of them is really interested, having some light-hearted fun in the middle of the current crisis is a true relief. Simpson is in no way his type, even though the recent weeks of enforced celibacy have not always been easy on him… especially after the regular and vigorous activities he was used to with Jack. “Interested?”

“I might be,” Simpson answers flirtatiously, “even though you’re so awfully young that you make me feel like some perverted old hag for even considering it.”

“I’m twenty-six… almost twenty-seven, actually,” Ianto points out. “It’s the suit. Makes me look younger… makes people underestimate me. Sometimes it can be useful.”

“I can see how,” Simpson agrees. “But even if I _were_ interested, which I’m not – I don’t do relationships. Not anymore, not out here. They’re too complicated… too _painful_ , if someone is killed or has to leave. And one-night-stands with weird behaviour and awkwardness afterwards just don’t work here, either. We’re too close to each other. That’s why most of us are sad, lonely people.”

She smiles, but there’s a deep, lingering sadness in her eyes, and Ianto asks herself what her true relationship with that Dr. Kavanagh, the one who’s sent him a letter and chocolate, might have been. But like at the first time, he decides not to ask. She’s entitled to her privacy.

His headset comes alive, saving him from having to give any answer, and he’s grateful, for what kind of answer could he give in such a situation. He touches the thing briefly. “Jones. Go on.”

“Mr. Jones, this is Teyla,” the tiny voice of the Athosian woman answers. “Can you come to the Control Room, please? I need your help with a problem.”

“Certainly, Ms Emmagan, but you know that I’m not a technician,” he replies.

“I know,” Teyla says. “It’s not that sort of problem. I need your help to make Mr. Woolsey listen to me. I’ve just spoken to Rodney, and he’s come up with a few disturbing possibilities. I’m no scientist, either, but I’m sure I can make Dr. Zelenka understand. Mr. Woolsey, however…”

“… might refuse it out of hand, coming from you,” Ianto understands. He’s witnessed Mr. Woolsey’s infuriatingly condescending manner towards the locals often enough. “Very well, I’ll be there in, say, twenty minutes? I need a coffee first if I’m to argue with Mr. Woolsey. The man can drain one’s energy like nobody else.”

Usually, he wouldn’t criticize his boss, not semi-publicly, but right now, he’s just too tired to care. He feels hot and uncomfortable in his suit which he’s been wearing since his last shower around midnight and briefly considers that perhaps changing into an Atlantis uniform, just for this time, would be a good idea. Then he rejects the thought. Wearing a suit is something he inherently identifies with work – he won’t change that now. If they’re all about to be eaten by a growing Wraith ship, he’ll at least die feeling like himself.

But a coffee would be definitely necessary.

“Try to make Woolsey see the light,” Simpson calls after him. “McKay is an arrogant asshole, but he’s usually right. They should listen to him.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When Ianto arrives at the Control Room, he finds Teyla, Martha and Zelenka already in animated discussion with Dr. Beckett and Mr. Woolsey. The ever-present Bates lurks quietly in the background, never missing a word, as is his wont. With both Sheppard and Lorne quarantined, the military contingent is represented by Major Ann Teldy, a plain-faced, no-nonsense blonde, who also happens to be the leader of Atlantis’s only all-female off-world team. She’s quiet, competent and tough as nails; still, Ianto imagines that Sheppard isn’t happy to entrust the safety of the whole city and all its inhabitants to her. Not because she’s a woman – Sheppard simply doesn’t like anyone _else_ in charge. Especially not someone who’s just arrived with the relief platoon. It’s understandable, in a way, but Ianto decides that Major Teldy deserves the benefit of the doubt. After all, everyone has to start somewhere. Granted, a major crisis probably isn’t the best time to start gaining command experience, but one can rarely choose the perfect time for that.

“Any headway with an antigen yet?” Woolsey is asking when Ianto enters.

“Afraid not,” Martha admits unhappily. “Dr. Beckett is still searching Michael’s database to see if there is anything that can help us, but…”

“… but I havnae found anything yet,” Beckett finishes for her. He looks terribly exhausted, and Ianto wonders how long the doctor’s severely damaged inner organs will be able to bear the strain.

“So, until further notice we just leave Dr. Keller in the isolation room, where she can grow some more tentacles?” Woolsey asks, clearly not content with he results.

Martha shrugs. “What other choice do we have? At least Dr. Zelenka’s idea to shut off the power seems to have slowed down the growth a bit.”

“It will not work in the long run, though,” Teyla says quietly, and everyone turns to her in surprise.

“What do you mean?” Zelenka asks with a frown.

“We are assuming that the ship has tapped into the electric grid by _randomly_ spreading out through the walls and the floor, correct?” Teyla replies with a question of her own, and Zelenka nods.

“ _Ano_ , it seems that way at the moment.”

“What if we are wrong?” Teyla asks. “What if the ship, in fact, actually grows towards electromagnetic fields, like… like a plant growing towards the sun?”

“In that case,” Zelenka answers slowly, “it will be heading directly for the next available power source. A... disturbing possibility, it is.”

“Is there any major power source nearby it could be heading for?” Ianto asks. He hasn’t fully memorised the power distribution system of Atlantis yet. He intended to do so but hasn’t found the time for a proper study, and now regrets it. He _hates_ lacking sufficient information.

“There,” Teyla points to an area on a screen showing the power distribution database. “One of the city’s main power conduits runs beneath the building.”

Woolsey shrugs, not seeing the problem. “So, shut the power down in that section as well,” he says, but unlike him, Ianto has already understood.

“They already _have_ , Mr. Woolsey,” he points out. “But apparently, the conduit wasn’t affected.”

Zelenka nods animatedly; several times, in fact. “ _Ano_ , that is problem, right? This conduit runs directly into ZeePM. Is like an express lane. Uh, we… we’ve already shut off rest of traffic but this one keeps moving along.”

“So how are we gonna stop it?” Ianto asks. He really, really ought to study the power system of the city, should they survive the current crisis. He can’t afford to get into another situation like this unprepared. Then the thought appears to him. “Oh, wait… the ZeePM.”

Teyla nods. “The only way to stop the growth of the ship would be to pull the ZeePM. and shut off power to the entire city.”

Bates gives her a suspicious look. “I had no idea you were so familiar with the power distribution grid.”

“I’m not,” Teyla returns coldly. Clearly still no love lost between her and the chief of security, and Ianto reminds himself to find out the reason for it – if there will be any future for them. “However, I spoke to Rodney.”

Woolsey and Zelenka exchange glances with Beckett, which makes Teyla frown.

“Is there a problem?” she asks evenly, her disappointment about their reaction apparent. In the end, it’s Beckett who answers her.

“Teyla, love, the pathogen seems to have a psychological effect on the host,” he says carefully.

“True, but Dr. McKay isn’t showing any symptoms yet,” Martha argues. “In fact, we can’t be sure that he will ever show any of them.”

“Perhaps,” Woolsey says. “But we _know_ it can affect their judgement, possibly well before any physical symptoms appear.”

“Yes, but he’s not wrong about _this_ ,” Zelenka, as always, jumps in to defend the theory of his friend and colleague.

“You mean that the ship _will_ grow towards the nearest power source?” Ianto clarifies.

“I don’t know,” Zelenka says, exasperated. “But I know one thing: _if_ it reaches conduit, it will have access to virtually unlimited power.”

“And what would happen if he does that?” Woolsey asks. But Ianto has already figured out the answer.

“The growth would increase exponentially,” he says, looking at Beckett, who nods.

“Aye, I’m afraid that’s what will happen.”

“And since we’ve shut this section down, we have no sensors in the area,” Zelenka adds unhappily.

“So the only way to know how far it’s penetrated is to do a visual inspection,” Major Teldy says. “We should assemble a team and go in.” Bates nods in agreement, but Woolsey isn’t entirely happy with the idea.

“Wouldn’t that be too dangerous?”

“No more than sitting here, doing nothing and letting that thing eat us alive and transform Atlantis into a Wraith hive,” the major says pointedly. She’s obviously fed up with not being able to _do_ anything.

“All right,” Woolsey sighs. “Assemble a team and take Dr. Zelenka down there.”

“Actually,” Bates says, “I should be the one to go with them. I know Atlantis better than anyone else, well, save doctors McKay and Zelenka. No offence, Major, but you’ve just gotten here.”

That’s such an obvious truth that Major Teldy gives in with an unhappy scowl. Zelenka, Teyla and Bates leave to gather their gear and their team-mates, and Woolsey turns to Martha.

“I need some answers, Dr Jones. How do we kill this thing?”

Martha gestures towards Beckett. “I believe Carson is better qualified to answer that question, Mr. Woolsey. I’m only assisting him – it will take time for me to catch up with all the research he’s already done.”

“Well,” Beckett shrugs tiredly. "We’re working on a genetically engineered virus that might be capable of destroying the pathogen that’s infecting Doctor Keller. But that wouldn’t eliminate the biopolymer itself.”

“What _would_ then?” Woolsey asks impatiently.

Beckett looks at him with haunted eyes. “At this time, Mr Woolsey, I have no idea. Our antigen will hopefully be able to stop the symptoms from emerging in the first place, but what we’re gonna do with those who’re already showing them… I just don’t know.”

This is a bitter thing to hear, and Woolsey seems to age before their eyes when the truth sinks in. Ianto smoothly moves in before the man can break down in front of all the people whom he’s supposed to lead.

“I believe we should risk to switch on the power in your office again, Mr. Woolsey,” he says. “Mr. Bates took a helm camera with him – that way, we’ll be able to follow their progress.”

Woolsey is already on the move, grateful for the chance to hide in his office for a while. Ianto looks at the others.

“Doctors? Major? Care to join us?”

Ann Teldy follows him at once, but Martha and Beckett choose to return to their research instead. It’s the most important thing right now, after all.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto instructs the technician on duty – who happens to be Sally Jacobs – to return power to Mr. Woolsey’s office. Soon enough, they can see Teyla, Zelenka and several soldiers, led by Bates, make their way along the dark corridor, lighting their way with torches.

“So, where are we going exactly?” Bates asks.

“Main conduit runs behind this wall here,” Zelenka shows them the direction. “Here, we can access it through this panel.”

He and Teyla open the panel to reveal a long metal-walled corridor, and then Teyla turns to Bates.

“Sergeant, have your men split up and search the surrounding corridors. They should look for anything that seems unusual.”

For a moment, Bates glares at her as if asking since when would she give him orders; then he obeys anyway. As the men head off, Zelenka unfolds a small ladder from the conduit that will allow him and Teyla to get inside. He hesitates for a moment, and Teyla looks at him in concern.

“Are you all right, Radek?”

“A little creeped out,” Zelenka admits with disarming honesty. “Let’s get inside. Time’s crucial aspect in this.”

He takes Bates’ helm camera – they need to document whatever is going on in there – and they climb inside the conduit. Immediately, they reach a T-junction. Zelenka looks to the left nervously, and Ianto can’t help but admire the quiet courage of the little scientist. It takes balls to go into unknown territory, knowing that some tentacled alien monster might lurk in there, waiting for a chance to kill you. Or eat you. Whatever.

“OK,” Zelenka takes a deep breath. “Right, I’ll go this way.”

“Stay in radio contact,” Teyla warns him. It’s unnecessary, of course, but it makes her feel a little better.

Zelenka flashes one of those quick little smiles of his. He appreciates the concern for his safety. “Right.”

They head off in opposite directions, and now the observers in Woolsey’s office can only see Zelenka’s progress, as Teyla doesn’t have a helm camera with her. Zelenka turns a few corners, shining his torch ahead of him, then stops in startlement and activates his headset.

“I think I have something.” He walks forward, and they can see that tendrils are growing out of the wall ahead of him. “Looks like Rodney was right.” 

He turns another corner and freezes when he sees what’s there. “ _Muj Bozhe_!”

He adjusts the settings of the helm camera fro them to see it, too. The dead-end ahead of him is smothered in a huge mass of tendrils.

“What is it?” Teyla asks over radio, concerned. Zelenka sighs.

“Looks like it’s attached itself to power conduit,” he replies, his accent thickening as always when in distress. Teyla can hear it, too, and her voice becomes urgent.

“I’m coming to you. Don’t touch anything until I’m there,” she warns him.”

“I won’t,” Zelenka promises. “I’m just going to see if I can determine how much power it’s draining.”

He holds up a small Ancient tool that has a disturbing similarity to the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver and activates it, holding it close to the mass. As the device begins to beep, a large tendril near the floor extends and makes its way towards him. It wraps itself around his right calf and yanks back, sending him crashing backwards to the floor. His head hits the floor hard and he loses consciousness.

Woolsey stares at the scene in deep shock. Ianto activates his headset. “Agent Bates, Ms Emmagan, Dr. Zelenka has been attacked,” he informs them in that calm, even voice he always used in the middle of a Torchwood crisis. “He’ll need help – but be careful. Those tentacles are everywhere.”

He can see even more tendrils move in and start to wrap themselves around Zelenka, who revives after a few seconds and looks in horror as the tendrils continue slithering over him.

“Try to be quiet, Dr. Zelenka, and don’t struggle,” Ianto instructs him. “You’d only make things worse. Help is on its way.”

“Easy for you to say,” Zelenka complains, but obeys, despite the panic in his voice. Ianto can’t see his face, of course, but can understand him all too well.

Just then a burst of automatic gunfire from Teyla and Bates sprays bullets all around the walls, severing many of the larger tendrils. The small ones withdraw from Zelenka’s body. Teyla runs forward and hauls him to his feet, takes the camera off him and tosses it to Bates.

“Let’s go, let’s go. Come on!” 

Clutching the back of his head, Zelenka stumbles away. Teyla runs after him, checking behind her frequently. Bates is the last, running practically backward and emptying the entire clip of his gun into the whirling mass of tendrils.

They reach the original junction and stop. Teyla turn Zelenka to her to look into his white face. “Are you all right?”

Zelenka takes his hand away from his head. It’s covered with blood, and Ianto gets a horrifying flashback to the reanimated Suzie with that huge bullet hole in her head where her brains were blown out.

“I think so.” Grimacing, Zelenka pulls a small piece of tendril out of the neck of his jacket. Making a sound of disgust, he throws it to the floor. “I had no idea it could move like that.”

“Nor did I,” Teyla, too, is deathly pale under her bronze tan. “This is much worse than we thought.”

Bates nods, his face grim. “Yeah. So, what are we supposed to do next?”

“First of all, take Dr. Zelenka to the Infirmary,” Ianto answers, as Mr. Woolsey is still too shocked to do so. “We’ll come down to you in a moment and assess the situation.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When they reach the infirmary, Zelenka sits on the side of a bed holding a pad to the back of his head as Martha shines a penlight into his eyes.

“Looks like it’s just a minor concussion,” she tells them. “After a little rest he should be fine.”

Woolsey isn’t easy to reassure, though. In fact, he seems a little bit hysterical at the moment.

“So it wasn’t bad enough that this thing was slowly taking over the base. Now it’s attacking people?” he asks, as if it were a personal insult. In his mind, perhaps it really is. “We need to put a stop to this, now.”

Zelenka looks up at him tiredly. “It won’t be easy. It’s already siphoned off massive amount of power.”

“We should pull the ZeePM,” Teyla suggests.

“That might not be enough,” Ianto says. “We could sit here in the dark for weeks while it just keeps on growing.”

“So, do you have a better suggestion?” Woolsey asks, but Ianto doesn’t have any.

Beckett comes out of the lab. He’s unnaturally tired and there are dark rings under his eyes. He has clearly overtaxed himself, but since they might be dead in hours anyway, no-one finds it necessary to point a finger at that fact.

“We need to get Jennifer out of there,” he says.

Woolsey gives him an incredulous look. “I wanna save Doctor Keller as much as anyone else, but we have additional concerns now,” he says tersely.

“I’m aware of that,” Beckett replied. “And that’s what gave me some thought. Why did it attack Radek?”

Ianto sees now where he is heading and nods in understanding. “Because it perceived him as a threat and took action.”

“Exactly,” Beckett says. Martha frowns.

“That indicates intelligence,” she replies. “But as far as we know, it has no brain of its own.”

“So you’re saying it’s using her?” the answer seems to dawn on Zelenka, too.

“I’m saying it _needs_ her,” Beckett replies. “To plan, to coordinate, to identify threats and deal with them.”

“That could explain why she was hearing voices,” Zelenka says thoughtfully, and Martha nods.

“The organism takes over a portion of the brain and sets up a separate consciousness,” she says grimly. “Like – like multiple personalities.”

“Aye,” Beckett says. “Otherwise, why have a human host at all?”

“So if we separate her from the main body...” Teyla trails off.

“... I’ll wager the rest of it becomes as lifeless as a dead tree trunk,” Beckett finishes.

“Sounds plausible,” Ianto says, although he does have his quiet doubts. He does remember that the Doctor’s previous incarnation has witnessed the destruction of Earth, and that there was apparently a species of sentient trees, originating from the same planet. One should never underestimate the survival instinct of intelligent plants.

In the meantime, Beckett goes to a cabinet and takes out a phial. He shows it to Woolsey.

“Now, this is the virus I was telling you about,” he says. “It’s called a phage and it should – at least theoretically – be able to attack and eliminate the pathogen that’s inside Jennifer’s bloodstream. And if I’m right about this, it should sever the connection.”

Sounds good,” Woolsey says. “What’s the catch?”

Beckett exchanges uncomfortable looks with Martha, each waiting for the other to let the other shoe drop.

“Well,” Beckett finally admits, “it’s never been tested.”


	13. Sacrifices

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 12 – SACRIFICES**

Half an hour later, the emergency conference – including McKay, Sheppard and Ronon Dex via the local version of a video conference – meets in Dr. Woolsey’s office. As both ranking military officers are quarantined, the Marine platoon once again is represented by Major Ann Teldy. Bates – whom everyone routinely calls Sergeant again – is present, too, as security matters fall into his area of responsibility.

Ianto stands in the background, providing the necessary data whenever his boss might need them. It’s a definite achievement to serving coffee, and he has no problems whatsoever with his status. In truth, he’s grateful that he isn’t the one to make the big decisions. Those usually result in the death of someone, and he’d prefer _not_ to bear that kind of responsibility. He’s already had his fair share of such things and gladly allows others to take over the burden.

“We turned the power back on briefly to get a look inside the building,” Woolsey explains the others and extends a hand into the vague direction of Ianto, who promptly turns the computer tablet in his hands to the camera.

“This is the ground floor, five floors _below_ the Isolation Room,” Ianto adds; the image on the screen shows the walls and the floor, all covered with tendrils. “As you can see, access is almost completely choked off.”

“No shit,” Sheppard murmurs in shocked surprise.

“Unfortunately, for this to work, we need someone to step right up to Jennifer’s… to Doctor Keller’s bed and inject her,” Martha says in concern.

“And how are we supposed to get there, without getting strangulated to death by that… _thing_?” Woolsey asks.

“Well,” McKay begins slowly, “we could use the transporter to get them close, but...”

“…but that would still mean to run a gauntlet of over fifty metres,” Ianto adds, having memorized the layout of that particular section already.

Woolsey shakes his head. “After what’s happened to Doctor Zelenka, it would be a death sentence to send anyone in there,” he looks at Major Teldy, and the anguish on his face is genuine. “Well, you understand my dilemma, don’t you?”

The tough blonde nods grimly. “Yeah.”

They all understand the grim choice: save Dr. Keller or save everyone else _and_ Atlantis. There’s only one possible decision, but they all loathe making it. McKay is the only one who hasn’t made the inevitable mental step yet, but Ianto has already realized that as brilliant as their head geek is in everything even vaguely scientific, he could be astonishingly naïve when it comes to the practicalities of life.

“What?” he asks in confusion. That he can’t directly look at them, being dependant on the camera focus, makes it not easier for him to gauge their reactions.

“Well,” Woolsey begins uncomfortably, “if Doctor Keller really is the key to this… _thing_ , there is an easier way.”

McKay just shakes his head uncomprehendingly. Bates finally has mercy with their leader and intervenes.

“We’d only need a couple of well-aimed shots at the Isolation Room,” he says bluntly. He’s a Marine – well, and ex-Marine, but in this context there’s no past tense –, he’s used to do the hard, unpopular thing.

McKay, as it can be expected, is shocked to hear that.

“Wait a second!” he protests. “What, you’re talking about _drones_? What, you’re gonna fire _drones_ at one of our own people?!"

“I’m afraid Doctor Keller is no longer one of our people, Doctor McKay,” Ianto says quietly. “Believe me; I’ve been in this situation before. I’ve tried to prevent the inevitable… and in the end, innocent people died, without achieving a thing. What’s growing down in the Isolation Room _isn’t_ Doctor Keller. Not anymore.”

“So, what about the others who got infected?” McKay demands. “What about me, or Sheppard, or Lorne, or the Wookie? Are you gonna shoot us, too?”

“If we have no other choice, yes, we are,” Bates replies uncompromisingly. “Or do you wanna turn into such an alien monstrosity, too? Let it probe your brain, use your knowledge against the rest of us?”

McKay is visibly deflated. Woolsey shakes his head sadly.

“I didn’t come to Atlantis with the intention of killing off my senior staff within the first week,” he says. “But my only other option is to risk someone else’s life on a solution that hasn’t even been tested yet. What if it doesn’t work?”

“I think we should test it,” Ianto suggests. “Ask for a volunteer who’s already been infected. If Doctor Beckett’s cure doesn’t work, they’re dead anyway – and the rest of us with them.”

Woolsey looks at him, then at Colonel Sheppard on the screen, then back at him again. “Not exactly by the book, I’d say.”

“No,” Ianto agrees. “But an acceptable risk – unless you want to blow up the Infirmary right away and be done with it.”

“He’s right,” Ronon Dex speaks up from his quarantined room via comm system. “And since I’ve got the bug anyway, I volunteer.”

“No,” Sheppard says promptly. “ _I’ll_ do it.”

Martha shakes her head in concern. “Colonel, I don’t think this is such a good idea. Infected or not, you’re still the ranking military officer of this base… and, unlike your second-in-command, you aren’t showing any symptoms yet.”

“I agree,” Dr. Beckett supports. “Remember, the formula comes from Michael, so as far as we know, it could...”

“...turn me into a bug?” Sheppard finishes with a shrug. “Been there, done that.”

“No,” Beckett replies seriously. “Actually, I was going to say it could kill you.”

Sheppard raises an eyebrow. “And the thing that’s perhaps already growing inside me wouldn’t?”

To that, Beckett has no answer. He looks at Martha helplessly, but Martha doesn’t give in.

“No way. There’s the faint chance that Colonel Sheppard won’t develop any symptoms at all… granted, it’s unlikely, but I don’t want to mess with that. If you want to test your cure, Carson, we ought to test it on someone like Major Lorne, who’s already showing the first symptoms – whether he volunteers or not.”

“I’m not goin’ to experiment on our own people,” Beckett’s accent is thickening, as always when he’s in stress. Martha still isn’t backing off, though.

“Think about it,” she says. “ _If_ your cure works, Major Lorne _might_ have a chance to survive. If not… he’ll end up like Doctor Keller, and _that_ would be a fate worse than dead, wouldn’t it?”

Beckett spreads his hand helplessly. “You’re the _de facto_ chief medical officer of Atlantis, love. It’s your decision… and your responsibility. But I wannae give him the shot unless he consents, and that’s final.”

“I’ll speak with Lorne,” Major Teldy says calmly. “I’m sure he’ll understand. If I were in his situation, I’d sure as hell prefer being dead to turning into some Wraith monstrosity.”

“All right,” Martha rises from her seat. “I’ll go and prepare the Infirmary, while a security team escorts Major Lorne down there.”

“I’m sure he’s capable to find his way alone,” Ann Teldy says dryly.

“I’m sure he is,” Martha replies. “Considering that he’s infected with a largely unknown pathogen of Wraith origins, however, that can lead him to unexpected – and most likely hostile – reactions, I believe precautions would be advisable. Sergeant Bates, if you would…”

“I’ll go myself,” Bates rises, too. “No offence, sir, ma’am,” he adds in the direction of Sheppard’s face on the screen and Major Teldy on the opposite side of the conference table,” but I’m responsible for the security here.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As expected, Major Lorne is more than willing to undergo the experimental treatment. His only symptom so far has been the clear goo covering his palms, but he _has_ seen the video footage of the development – or one should say the downward spiral – of Dr. Keller’s condition and doesn’t want to end like her. A sentiment that Ianto, watching the events unfold in the Infirmary on the screen of the Control Room, can understand all too well. _He_ didn’t want to be “updated” by Cyber-Lisa, either, and he agrees that sometimes, just sometimes, death _is_ the lesser evil a person can choose.

Besides, if Dr. Beckett’s cure works, Lorne might have a chance to survive yet.

Led in by two big, burly security men from the German contingent, the major obediently lies down on a bed. His only reaction is a light grimace when the med techs strap his arms and legs to the bed tightly.

“Are the restraints truly necessary?” he asks.

Beckett shoos Bates and his gorillas out of the way. “Aye, laddie,” he replies. “I’m sorry, but I’m anticipatin’ a severe reaction.”

“ _How_ severe?” Lorne asks, while Bates  & Co. obediently retreat into the background. They are, however, still aiming their Wraith stunners at him. Just in case.

Beckett shrugs apologetically. “I cannae tell, lad. Hate to break it to ya, but you’re our very first guinea pig.”

“Oh, great!” Lorne leans back on the pillow and closes his eyes. He’s got beautiful eyes, and Ianto hopes he’ll be able to open them again. So does Major Ann Teldy, if the anguish clearly written in her plain face is any indication. Ianto makes a mental note to do a bit of discreet matchmaking, should they come out of this crisis alive… and undamaged. Military types can be so helpless sometimes.

Dr. Beckett now injects Lorne in the neck and pats the major’s face in an almost paternal manner. Which is ridiculous, since – according to their personal files – they’re only a few years apart. Well, Lorne and the _original_ Carson Beckett used to be. This one is barely two, Ianto realizes, feeling the first signs of an upcoming headache. He needs coffee in the worst way, but right now, he can’t leave the Control Room.

“Now, it should take a few minutes to kick in,” Beckett is saying in the meantime, “so just try to relax.”

“Sure, doc,” Lorne replied dryly, without opening those beautiful eyes. “I’ll just relax. This beats every beach I’ve ever been to.”

Ianto suppresses a smile. He likes Lorne’s dry sense of humour, which reminds him of Owen’s, but without the bite in it. Lorne is perhaps the easiest one of the whole military contingent to be around: quiet, competent, intelligent and funny. He and Ianto have arrived at first-name basis after the first week. Aside from Dr. Simpson, he’s the only one Ianto calls by first name, and he’d hate to lose him.

He sees his fears coming true when Lorne starts convulsing, his handsome face twisting into a painful grimace. Martha sees it, too, because she calls out to Dr. Beckett, and waves Bates closer to help her.

“Carson, quickly… and you, Sergeant, hold him down, or he’ll hurt himself!”

“Seems… these restraints… were a good idea,” Lorne says through gritted teeth, while his convulsions become stronger. So much stronger that Bates practically has to lie on him to keep him down.

Dr. Beckett and Martha stand over them, watching Lorne writhe in agony helplessly. There’s nothing they could do; they have to wait until it’s over.

“At least it seems to be working,” Martha finally says.

Beckett nods. “Aye… let’s just hope his heart can take it.”

Ianto itches to run down to the Infirmary, not that he could be useful there, just so that he could _do_ something. He’s already lost too many good friends, valued colleagues, to be able to watch another one he’s come to care for die. But he also knows he can’t leave, not now. He’s needed here, in the Control Room, to present a calm, unflappable surface – even though it couldn’t be further from his true feelings. It’s vital that Control Room personnel keep focused, and they’ve quickly grown accustomed to use _his_ visible calm as their focusing point. As long as _he_ keeps his calm, _they_ will, too. And so he can’t afford to panic. It’s that simple.

Even Dr. Zelenka’s tired blue eyes seek him out from time to time for reassurance. Which should be ridiculous, given that Dr. Zelenka is a veteran of the very first day. There isn’t much on Atlantis that he wouldn’t have seen already. But Ianto has come to understand that this is, exactly, what the veterans of the first year need: a fixed point in the chaos that determines their daily lives.

So what if that fixed point is a young newbie in an impeccable suit, in which he stands out of the uniformed crowd like a sore thumb? Ianto, with his mere presence, gives them the feeling that they’re cared for; that they won’t need to waste their time with basic stuff any longer. Not now that they’ve got him to rely on.

It’s not that different from Torchwood, after all. The others have always looked at Jack for guidance and inspiration, but it was _Ianto_ who kept the place running; kept them fed and caffeinated. The only difference is that _here_ he’s also given responsibilities. Important ones, beyond coffee and clean-up and Chinese take-out. And those responsibilities mean he can’t freak out, no matter how strong the urge might be.

Mr. Woolsey has, in the meantime, walked over to Dr. Zelenka’s workplace and is now peering over the man’s shoulder.

“What’s our status?” he asks.

The scruffy little Czech is so focused he doesn’t even look up.

“Well, the Infirmary and a few other essential systems have been switched to emergency generators,” he reports. “We’re ready.”

“All right,” Woolsey says. “Pull the plug.”

Dr. Zelenka types away on his keypad with a speed that would have made Tosh blanch with envy, and all the lights go out in the Control Room. Through the balcony window Ianto can see lights going out all around gradually, until the entire city is plunged in darkness.

He only hopes this would slow down the growing of the Wraith ship long enough for _someone_ to reach the Isolation Room and… and do whatever solution is left to them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Mr. Woolsey decided to go down to the Infirmary, to see with his own eyes how things are developing. He doesn’t invite Ianto along, but Ianto goes nonetheless. He’s determined to say his goodbyes to Lorne, in case the cure wouldn’t work; and Woolsey has learned already to leave him to his own devices, as that is how he works best.

The scene they find down there isn’t encouraging. Lorne is still convulsing on the bed, Bates practically lying on him, and McKay is loudly complaining via comm system about sweaty palms, a dry mouth and heart palpitations. Which wouldn’t be anything out of ordinary – he _is_ the biggest hypochondriac of both galaxies, after all – _if_ he weren’t infected with the alien pathogen, too. _If_ the symptoms wouldn’t start with sticky palms.

Martha and Dr. Beckett are currently ignoring him nevertheless. Their main concern is Major Lorne, whose heart rate is now dramatically increasing… then the monitors flatline and Lorne stops moving.

“Doc!” Bates cries out, alarmed by the abruptness with which the man has gone limp under him.

Dr. Beckett runs over and checks Lorne’s pulse. “His heart’s stopped,” he says with the controlled urgency only doctors who’ve worked at A&E can display. “Bag him! Get a crash cart in here! Prepare to intubate!”

Not waiting for the med techs to arrive, Martha starts to pump air into Lorne’s lungs with the help of a hand pump, as Dr. Beckett begins to work on his chest, counting off chest compressions in time with Martha’s air pump. 

“One, two, three,” Beckett counts through gritted teeth. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Come on, son, don’t you dare to die on me! One, two, three. One, two, three.”

Finally the monitors stutter and then start to show a pulse. Beckett checks Lorne’s neck again as Martha hands the air pump to Marie Ko, who takes it away.

“He’s back,” Beckett says in relief, and Ianto releases a breath he wasn’t aware he’s been holding. If nothing else, at least the cure hasn’t killed the major.

When Lorne’s breathing on his own again, Martha takes blood from him and hurries over to the lab to make a full blood test. It’s a good thing that they’ve managed to get some of the Ancient medical equipment working; they’re so much more efficient than Earth standard. Even more than SGC standard.

So efficient, in fact, that Martha comes back after a mere ten minutes or so, grinning from ear to ear and handing Beckett a computer tablet. “Congratulations, Carson. You’re officially a genius.”

Woolsey looks from one doctor to the other with a confused frown. “Does it mean the cure _worked_?”

Beckett nods tiredly. There’s no triumph on his gaunt face – the recent hours had taken their toll on him not that he’d been in his best shape to begin with – but there’s definitely relief.

“Well, the blood screen came up negative,” he replied. “As far as I can tell, the alien pathogen has been eliminated.”

Woolsey visibly sacks in relief. “Well done,” he says. Beckett just nods tiredly.

“Now we just need someone to go into the Isolation Room,” Martha says brightly.

“I’ll do it,” Beckett says, simultaneously with Ronon Dex from the quarantine. After a moment, even McKay makes a somewhat reluctant offer, surprising everyone… except Martha and Ianto.

Martha gives Dr. Beckett a stern look. “Forget it, Carson. If a doctor’s gonna in there, that doctor’s gonna be me.”

Beckett tries to protest, but Woolsey cuts him short.

“Is any special medical skill is required to administer the drug?” he asks.

“Well, no, not really,” Beckett admits reluctantly. “It’s just a simple injection.”

Woolsey nods as if he’d expected the answer. “Well, then, given your condition, I wouldn’t make you my first choice,” he says.

Beckett deflates visibly, and Woolsey turns to Martha. “The same for you, Doctor Jones. We can’t risk losing you, unless there’s no other solution.”

“That’s why I said I’d do it.” Ronon comments.

“Hah!” McKay grouses. “Haven’t you figured out yet? He doesn’t trust us, ‘cause we’re still infected.”

“Actually,” Beckett says, brightening considerably, “that might not be a bad thing. When Colonel Sheppard was infected with the iratus bug DNA, he was able to walk right into that nest without being attacked.”

“You think someone infected with the pathogen would be more likely to get through?” Woolsey asks with a frown.

“Well,” Beckett replies a little defensively, “it’s possible… and still our best chance.”

Woolsey turns and looks at Ronon, still not entirely convinced, but the big Satedan just turns promptly away and heads off to get ready. After a moment of hesitation, Woolsey instructs security to let him out of quarantine and leaves to watch his success from the Control Room… as much as it’s possible, with the security cameras off-line and the power cut to most parts of the city.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto remains in the Infirmary with Martha and Bates, waiting for Lorne to wake up. He has a really bad feeling about the whole thing – perhaps a Torchwood instinct for impending doom, he’s not sure, but he’s almost certain that Ronon will fail. Bates seems to have similar thoughts, because he’s pacing nervously… something Ianto has never seen him do, and something he – according to local folklore – had no tendency to do, ever.

“Do you believe the antigen would work on Doctor Keller?” the ex-Marine asks Martha. Martha shrugs. She doesn’t seem very optimistic, either.

“Honestly? I’m not sure,” she admits. “Doctor Keller’s transformation is nearly finished. Perhaps the antigen can’t reverse the changes at such an advanced phase.”

“And if it can’t… what then?” Bates asks. “Do you think Dex will be able to kill her, if necessary?”

Ianto shakes his head. “Not a chance. Specialist Dex has… _feelings_ for Doctor Keller, just like Doctor McKay. We’ve seen them compete with each other for her attention often enough. He’ll try _everything_ to save her. Even if it kills him… and us all.”

“Do I hear the voice of experience speaking here?” Bates isn’t teasing. His face, his voice is deadly serious.

Ianto nods. “I’ve done so… and people died. We need a Plan B, in the likely case that the antigen won’t work.”

“Can I assume that you already have one?” Bates asks.

Ianto nods again. “Yes, I have. Unfortunately, that would require the use of a puddle jumper. I don’t presume you can fly one?”

Bates shakes his head. “You’re the one with the gene.”

“True,” Ianto allows. “But even if I had a strong natural gene, which I do not, _that_ alone wouldn’t enable me to pilot a spaceship. Not even such a small one.”

“What do you need a puddle jumper for anyway?” Bates asks.

“Plan B would be the same thing Mr. Woolsey suggested,” Ianto explains. “To take a shortcut from the outside and blast a hole in the tower with the Isolation Room in it. So that someone can access the room directly and… well, and do whatever still can be done.”

“That would take care of the problem of getting there,” Bates agrees. “But we’d need a pilot for that.”

“You’ve found one,” the tired voice of Lorne answers, and the major sits up on the bed, although a little shakily. Seeing their surprise, he shrugs. “If the cure doesn’t work, this is the kindest thing we can do for Doctor Keller. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. But I can’t take a puddle jumper without authorization.”

“As Mr. Woolsey’s aide, I _have_ sufficient authorization,” Ianto says. “The puddle jumper is not the problem. Getting to the Isolation Room will be, weak as you still are.”

“I’m going with him,” Bates offers. “Take a shot of Dr. B’s antigen with me, in case Ronon won’t even make it so far. If it doesn’t work, or if it’s impossible to get close enough to Dr. Keller… well, I’m a Marine. And I barely know her. It will be the easiest if I do it.”

Ianto nods. “Agreed. Let’s go.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
After letting Lorne and Bates into the puddle jumper bay, Ianto returns to the Control Room. He finds the people there in shocked silence.

“What happened?” he asks, although he could make an educated guess. It’s Dr. Zelenka who answers him.

“We’ve lost contact to Ronon,” he says. Ianto nods. Just as he’d expected.

“How far has he got?” he asks.

“Not very far, from what we can tell,” Woolsey explains. “Apparently, the growth of the tendrils was so thick in the corridor he couldn’t even reach the Isolation Room. The middle of the corridor was blocked by some sort of thick membrane.”

“So he decided to blast a hole through it,” Dr. Beckett adds in exasperation. “Which was the very moment the… _thing_ realized he wasn’t a friend, and… well, we havnae heard a thing from him ever since.”

“I see,” Ianto is thinking furiously. Now that the ship… entity… whatever has been alerted, Lorne and Bates would need a distraction to get to the Isolation Room. Considering that at the moment Dr. Keller was the thing’s brain, or biological processor, or whatever Wraith ships used, distracting her might give the two a chance.

Coming up with an idea, Ianto turns to Dr. Zelenka.

“Doctor Zelenka, turn the power back on, please,” he says politely. “And open me a channel to the Isolation Room, will you?”

Zelenka blinks at him owlishly. “What? Why?”

“I don’t have the time to explain,” Ianto stomps down on his own impatience. He needs to be at his calmest best. “Please, do it.”

Zelenka glances nervously at Woolsey. After a moment of uncertainty, Woolsey nods to him. Zelenka types away on his console.

“All right,” he says a moment later, “you have a channel.”

“Thank you,” Ianto activates his headset. “Doctor Keller, this is Ianto Jones from Torchwood. Do you remember me?”

The voice that comes over the comm system is clearly Dr. Keller’s voice, but it is deeper and strangely distorted. It remains Ianto of the raspy voice of the faeries – the _Mara_ – and he shudders with the creepy memory… but only in the inside. On the outside, he’s as calm and unflappable as ever.

“I know who you are,” the voice says, “but I’m not Doctor Keller any more.”

“Interesting,” Ianto has always been the master of understatement, and that comes in handy now. “May I ask who you _are_ then?”

“I have no designation yet,” the creepy alien voice replies. “I’ll be given one when I’m complete.”

“I see,” Ianto says calmly. “Am I right assuming that your ultimate goal is to transform this city into a Wraith ship… or rather, into several Wraith ships?”

“That is correct,” the inhuman voice answers. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Just as you’ll never be able to stop my masters.”

“You should never underestimate the human will to survive,” Ianto replies, trying to keep the… _thing_ talking, to keep its attention focused on _him_ , instead of watching its surroundings. “What have you done to Specialist Dex?”

“You mean the intruder?” the voice is cold, dispassionate; it no longer reminds him of the faeries, rather of Lisa in full Cyberwoman mode. Fortunately, he’s never been emotionally attached to the person the thing used to be, so he can keep his calm… for the time being.

“He’s alive, for the moment,” the voice continues. “He’s been neutralised. I can feel his pulse. It’s weak. It would only take the slightest squeeze…”

“Perhaps so,” Ianto replies calmly, “but that would be illogical, wouldn’t it? He’s one of you, isn’t he? Already carrying the seed inside him… the chance to develop into something like you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the voice replies. “I have other seedlings in this place… losing one wouldn’t be of any importance. And others from you can always be given the seed… the chance to grow beyond your pitiful little selves, into a greater existence.”

Now Ianto is having creepy Cyberwoman reminiscences, and he needs all his strength _not_ to freak out.

“I’ve already got a similar offer to be _upgraded_ , but I think I’ll pass this one, too,” he says. “I’m quite fond of my pitiful little existence, thank you. And so are the others.”

“Personal preferences are irrelevant,” the voice says. “You can’t stop me. I will become as I was meant to be… and so will you, one by one.”

From that moment on, it doesn’t react to any attempts of communication, so Ianto gestures to Dr. Zelenka to close the channel.

“I hope it was enough time for Major Lorne and Sergeant Bates,” he says. “Cos I’m not sure I can help them any more.”

Woolsey frowns. “What are they planning?”

“Taking a shortcut from the outside,” Ianto explains, “and shooting their way through to the Isolation Room.”

“What?!” Dr. Beckett cries out in shock. “You’re just gonna kill her, after all?”

“They do have another shot with them,” Ianto replies, “in the unlikely case they might get close enough. If not, or if the antigen doesn’t work, then yes, they _are_ going to blow her… _it_ to hell. It’s that, or letting the ship develop fully and destroy the city and us with it. I’m sorry, Doctor Beckett, but sometimes you just can’t save everyone.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
While they are arguing in the Control Room, Bates supports Lorne into the pilot seat of Puddle Jumper #3.

“Are you up to it, Major?” the ex-Marine asks doubtfully. “You’re still pretty shaky on your feet.”

“Fortunately for us, a jumper is flown from a sitting position,” Lorne answers, breathing heavily. “Just give me a moment.”

He thinks the virtual screen into existence and punches the button that opens up the roof of the jumper bay. Bates scrambles into the co-pilot’s seat and holds on to it for dear life as Lorne flies the Jumper out of the roof and swings around towards the tower containing the Isolation Room.

As they get closer, the sight offered to them make them gaggle in unison. The tower’s outer wall is practically covered in a huge mass of tendrils. It seems like a living entity… which, Bates supposes, in a way it is.

“So, what next?” he asks. “Are you gonna fire drones at that tower?”

Lorne shakes his head. “Nah; that would kill Ronon as well. The best way to do this would be to punch a hole through the wall… let’s hope the shields will hold. You better brace for impact, though. This might hurt.”

With that, he grits his teeth and sends the jumper towards the tower. The little ship shakes violently as it smashes straight through the wall and skids to a halt inside.

“Whoa…” Bates groans and shakes his head to clear the fog before his eyes. “Three cheers for the shields _and_ for the inertial dampeners. For a moment, I was sure we’d end up as bloody smears on the wall.”

Lorne gives no answer, just blinks woozily. Apparently, his miraculous recovery wasn’t entirely without side effects – or he’s hit his head on the instrumental board. Bates has no time to check him, though. He’d call a med team later… if there _will_ be a “later”, that is.

“Listen, sir,” he says, hoping that Lorne is lucid enough to understand him. “You just stay here in the jumper and try to recover. I’ll go and do what I have to do. Will you be able to start the jumper again?”

“Dunno,” Lorne slurs. “’m a geologist, not an engineer. Doctor Z’s gonna kill us for this.”

“Run a diagnostic,” Bates says. “If I’m not back by the time it’s run its circle, try to start the engines and get the hell out of here. There’ll still be time enough to evacuate.”

Lorne nods obediently – he’s clearly still hazy-minded from the impact and from the aftershocks of the infection – and with a sluggish thought, he starts the self-diagnostic sequence.

Bates gets out of his seat and goes to a weapons case behind it. Opening the case, he takes out a pistol that looks suspiciously like Ronon’s blaster, albeit a slightly different model, and checks the energy level. It’s fully charged, which means it will make one hell of an impact. Bates checks the syringe in his pocket; then goes to the rear of the ship and swipes the panel to open the rear hatch.

He doesn’t have the gene, but the jumper’s board computer is programmed to recognize the DNA of key station personnel. It wouldn’t let him fly the ship, but it gives him control over such small functions. The hatch lowers and he looks out. There’s a circular hole in the wall behind the jumper and severed tendrils dangle from the ceiling. Some of them are still moving. 

“Wish me luck, sir,” he says as he heads out.

But Lorne can’t hear him. The major is slumped back in his seat, unseeing eyes wide open. Bates doesn’t even have the time to check if he’s still alive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Fortunately for him, Lorne has chosen the spot of the impact well: he only has to get down a short corridor to reach the Isolation Room. It still isn’t an easy task, even though the tendrils are ignoring him at the moment and are moving _en masse_ towards the jumper. Which means he has to hurry up before they reach the major’s position and squeeze the rest of life out of him like a bunch of crazed anacondas.

Walking cautiously, he manages to reach the Isolation Room. Dr. Keller’s bed is a mass of writhing tendrils – some of them thicker as his thigh – and strands are moving all around the room. Slowly, ever so slowly, Bates moves closer to the bed and looks down at Dr. Keller, whose eyes are closed, her face covered in small vines. It’s a sight beyond disturbing. It’s also a sure sign that the transformation is nearly completed.

Bates asks himself whether in the control core of every Wraith ship there is a trapped living being… and if they feel any pain when their ship is damaged. Then he shakes off the thought. He has a job to finish, one way or another, and feeling pity for one trapped human being could cause the death of many others. Hundreds alone here, in Atlantis. Millions of others elsewhere, once the ship reaches its full potential.

He reaches out and injects Dr. Keller in the neck, as he’s seen Dr. Beckett doing it. For a moment she doesn’t react, then her eyes snap open and she stares at him malevolently. These are no longer the pretty human eyes of the young doctor. They are of an unholy yellow colour, with slanted pupils. Wraith eyes.

All around the room, the tendrils began to writhe in anguish… but clearly, they’ve grown too strong, too great in numbers for the antigen to work properly. One large tendril, almost as thick as his arm, lashes out and stabs straight into his stomach. He crumples to his knees and howls in pain. Clutching his stomach, he raises his blaster, aims it up at the head of the creature that used to be Dr. Keller, and fires.

The weapon has the kick of a mule, which Ronon has forgotten to tell him. It hurls him backward, against the bulkhead, where he hits his head – hard – and slumps into unconsciousness. He no longer sees the tendrils around the room sag and stop moving.

In the meantime, Lorne has come to full consciousness in the jumper’s cockpit and can finally react to Mr. Woolsey’s frantic radio calls.

“Major Lorne, what’s your status? Major Lorne, do you read me?”

“Yeah,” he replies weakly. “I’ve been better, though… and so has the jumper.”

“What happened?” Woolsey asks.

“The jumper’s been damaged,” Lorne reports tiredly. “I’ll have to go in and check on Bates… at least these… _things_ have stopped moving. Will report back in ten.”

He clambers out of the cockpit and follows Bates’ path into the Isolation Room. The sight that greets him nearly makes him throw up. The part of the bed where Dr. Keller’s head used to be has been completely blasted away. Dead tendrils lie and hang everywhere. The stench is sheer unbearable, even for someone who’s dealt with Unas up and close like him.

Next to the door, he finds Bates on his knees. He’s unconscious, and there’s an ugly, bleeding wound in his stomach. He won’t last long without medical help.

Lorne taps his earpiece. “Control Room, this is Major Lorne. We need a trauma team down here, and we need it _now_. Sergeant Bates is seriously injured. You’d better take the route we have, or he’ll bleed to death within minutes.”

“What about Doctor Keller?” Woolsey asks. In the background, Lorne can hear Ianto’s calm, competent voice as the young Welshman authorizes the use of another puddle jumper, orders a medical team into the Jumper Bay and sends a security unit via transporter to pick up Ronon.

The major looks at the charred bed. “Whatever still might be there of her is dead,” he says quietly. “And so is the ship.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The clean-up afterwards takes weeks… and it isn’t pleasant. The recovery of infected personnel is relatively quick, although with the unfortunate side effect of insomnia, nightmares and – for some reason – massive digestion problems. Still, considering the possible alternate outcome, no-one is complaining. No-one but Rodney McKay, that is, but McKay’s ceaseless complaints are one of the very few constants of the known universe.

Bates survives, thanks to the surgeon skills of Dr. Beckett, but he’s taken heavy damage and isn’t allowed to leave the Infirmary for a while. Ronon Dex, whom the tendrils have nearly choked to death, has a bruised larynx and isn’t able to speak for several days. Although, according to Colonel Sheppard, it’s unlikely that anyone would notice the difference.

The worst part of all is to get rid of the ungodly mass of dead semi-organic tissue. People need to wear protective masks, as it stinks half of burnt circuits, half of rotten flesh – a particularly unpleasant stench. The biologists are the only ones happy in these days, as there are plenty of samples to study. Everyone else is reaching their limitations.

“It’s like Torchwood all over again,” Ianto complains to Martha. This is one of the rare times he wears and Atlantis uniform, not wanting to damage his suits beyond repair. This is worse than cleaning out the Weevil cells in the Hub’s basement used to be.

Martha nods in agreement. She’s pretty shaken herself. But again, she’s come to know the late Dr. Keller a lot better than Ianto. For her, it’s more of a personal loss. Ianto knows the feeling and passes her a cup of coffee with chocolate sprinkles without asking.

Simultaneously, technicians are working on the damage all over the city. It’s extensive. As the ship grew, it destroyed huge chunks of Atlantis, transforming her material into its own. The repair teams have to salvage parts from the uninhabited areas to patch up the random holes. They have to reroute huge amounts of circuits to keep the city functional… but it’s just an emergency job. They’ll have to replace entire bulkheads, eventually, and they simply don’t have the raw material for it.

“We can’t just keep cannibalizing the city as we’ve done in the recent days,” McKay argues on the staff meeting. “It’s not just a city, for God’s sake! It’s a _starship_ – a complete unit, closed unto itself. If we keep cutting off chunks, it might fall to pieces under our feet; or simply blow up.”

“Well, take the salvaged sections off-line!” Sheppard suggests.

McKay rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious, I’d never have thought of _that_ without your eternal wisdom! That was the first thing we did, all right? But this is an _extremely_ complex construction that we’re still only beginning to understand, even after five years!”

“So, what would you need?” Woolsey asks, before Sheppard and McKay could get into one of their full-blown arguments.

“Help from Earth,” Zelenka replies in McKay’s stead. “Tons of raw material. Ready-made metal plates and circuits, produced according to Atlantis specifications. Things we just can’t produce here. We don’t have manpower _or_ right facilities.”

“And Earth has the know-how?” Woolsey asks doubtfully.

McKay shrugs. “The SGC has Kavanagh. He might be a jerk – well, he _is_ one – but nobody knows more about fluid mechanics and transport processes by complex and multiphasic fluids than him. If we send him the specs, he’ll be able to overlook the production. Of course, _somebody_ has to talk the moronic bureaucrats of Earth into giving us what we need.”

All eyes turn to Ianto, because by now, the senior staff has realized to the last man (or woman) that whenever it comes to getting things they want or need, on a large scale or on a small one, Ianto is their go-to guy.

“Well, Mr. Jones,” Woolsey says slowly, “what do you think about a short holiday to Earth? Doctor Beckett is scheduled to return via Stargate this afternoon. You could go with him and come back when the _Daedalus_ makes her next turn.”

Ianto hesitates. The chance to finally experience Stargate travel is tempting. And escorting Dr. Beckett home would mean he might make a stop in Wales and visit his family… perhaps even meet Jack, whom he’s missing so badly it almost hurts sometimes. On the other hand, he’s just getting his footing in Atlantis. He’s not really sure he wants to leave just yet.

“I think you should go, Ianto,” Martha says unexpectedly. “You could achieve so much more than any written report. And if you contact the Premier Minister _and_ the Brigadier, we may get help we wouldn’t get otherwise. UNIT does have its sources, you know that.”

Ianto knows that all too well, of course, and so after some hesitation he finally gives in. The rest of the senior staff isn’t happy to live without his coffee for a month or so, but they all agree that he’s the right person to bargain with the brass for them. So he goes packing. He might leave via Stargate, but the way back aboard the _Daedalus_ will be a long one again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Before his scheduled departure, he goes to Mr. Woolsey’s office to collect all the detailed reports… including the scientific ones of McKay for the SGC and Martha’s medical ones for UNIT: He finds his new boss in a thoughtful mood.

“I’ve just been on a call with my superiors back on Earth,” Woolsey tells him. “They were going over my preliminary report.”

Ianto raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “What did you tell them?”

Woolsey sighs. “The truth: that within my first week as commander I violated at least half a dozen basic security protocols.”

Ianto winces in sympathy. He’s a stickler to the rules himself – well, except under extreme circumstances – so he can imagine what that admission must have cost the older man.

“I let Beckett run the investigation,” Woolsey continues his monologue, “in spite of his condition and the fact that he’s technically no longer a member of this expedition. I sent Ronon to deliver the antidote, even though he was infected.”

“But that was the point, wasn’t it?” Ianto points out helpfully. “Only an infected person had a real chance to get in there. Hadn’t he been so trigger-happy, he wouldn’t have been attacked at all.”

“Perhaps,” Woolsey admits reluctantly. “That doesn’t change the fact that I compromised the safety of this base to rescue someone who was well beyond our help anyway.”

“But you couldn’t be sure about _that_ , could you?” Ianto reminds him. “And you _did_ allow Sergeant Bates to carry out Plan B, in cause she was beyond help, and so we _did_ save the city and everyone in it, didn’t we? Not to mention millions of potential future victims.”

Woolsey nods but doesn’t seem particularly comforted.

“The I.O.A. would seem to agree with you,” he says. “Apparently they’re willing to let the matter drop.”

“But you still aren’t convinced, are you?” Ianto asks.

Woolsey looks at him with a pained expression. “The rules are there for a reason, Mr. Jones. If I can’t trust them, then I’m not sure I can do this job.”

Ianto remembers how _he_ acted against the rules, keeping a half-transformed Lisa in the basement of the Hub, endangering everyone just because he didn’t want to accept that she, too, was beyond help. And he remembers Jack’s desperate action with which he brought the dead Owen back to unlife, just because _he_ couldn’t let go… and sympathises with the sentiment. Even though no major tragedy has happened due to Mr. Woolsey’s all too human hesitation, the rules _are_ there for a reason.

“Our mistakes are what make us human,” he finally says. “Perfection is for machines; and believe me, Mr. Woolsey, that’s _not_ an upgrading you’d want. I know what I’m talking about; I’ve seen it. Let’s be grateful that we only lost Doctor Keller – things could have gone much worse – and see the rules for what they are: guidelines. They are useful, but beyond that, the decision is always ours.”


	14. Interlude in Cardiff #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Beckett’s personal background and former career is entirely my creation. The institutions named below are really existing ones, though. The various UNIT members mentioned in this chapter are canon characters. I just bent things a little to fit them in. This is still an AU, after all.
> 
> Yes, there’s another Evil Time Shift™ in this part. Yes, it’s still intentional and happens with a deeper reason.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 12.1 – INTERLUDE IN CARDIFF #2**

After a week of unexpectedly hefty Rift activity, the last couple of days had finally been quiet in the Hub. Almost boring. But – unlike in other times – right now, Captain Jack Harkness welcomed the boredom. It gave him the opportunity to train his new team members in peace… not to mention methodically and thoroughly. And, of course, to keep looking for a new medic.

Mickey didn’t need much training, of course. His travelling with the Doctor, not to mention the time spent in an alternate reality, had prepared him for just about everything. Sara Lloyd, too, had proved to be as eminently useful at field work as she was in the lab. But Jack wanted Emma to learn how to use a gun, no matter how much she protested. And he was toying with the idea of hiring Andy Davidson as a field agent again. Yeah, Gwen would be pissed, but considering the fact that she practically stopped doing any useful work in the Hub and was dangerously unpredictable in the field, Jack couldn’t force himself to care about Gwen’s displeasure in these days.

Basically, it was up to Andy. If he felt up to the challenge of facing Gwen on a daily basis again, he was in. Jack had checked with Detective Inspector Henderson, who seemed to think that Andy was a competent, reliable policeman, and capable of teamwork… even reasonably good with a gun, which was a rare thing for constables. But Andy had learned to shoot on his own volition, in the hope to go to detective school one day. It never got realized, but he still had the skills.

“He’d do just nicely,” Mickey agreed when Jack discussed the topic with him. “And we really need a bigger team, so that each of us would get regular sleep, you know.”

That still left them without a medic and without an archivist, because honestly, neither of them had the meticulous mindset – _or_ the dedication – to do Ianto’s job. Or, to be more accurate, the really important half of it. That was a serious problem, and Jack still hadn’t got the faintest idea how to solve it.

As for the new medic, he was about to give in and hire that young Indian doctor – Patanjali or what the heck was his name – that UNIT had tried to sell him for a while. He’d hoped that Martha would change her mind and come to Cardiff, after all, but it didn’t seem like that, and Torchwood Three couldn’t go on without a medic any longer.

So he asked Emma – who'd grown into her combined duties as shop girl/personal secretary just nicely – to make an appointment with the young doctor. He sent Gwen to meet him and had Lloyd watch them on CCTV, just in case they needed to interfere. Astonishingly enough, the interview went reasonably well, and he could hire Dr. Patanjali within the week.

He was still busy introducing their new medic to his new and varied duties, when he got a call from Glasgow. From Sir Archibald McAllister, the head and currently sole member of Torchwood Two, to be more accurate.

That in itself wouldn’t have been such an outstanding occurrence. Archie, as he called the blue-blooded, eccentric Scotsman, regularly phoned him. There wasn’t much of an alien threat to prevent in Glasgow, and Archie’s main duties consisted of cataloguing the archives of Torchwood House, which must have been pretty boring – unless one was Ianto. So the Torchwood Two leader got his excitement second-hand, most of the time.

Jack didn’t really mind it. Despite his idiosyncrasies, Archie was actually a decent guy – and a lonely one. Providing him with some company was a good deed. This, however, didn’t seem to be one of his social calls. In fact, he seemed unusually serious… almost grim.

“Jack, I need your help,” he told his fellow Torchwood leader without preamble.

“Oh?” Jack said in surprise, because _that_ was definitely a novum. Not only hadn’t Archie ever asked of him a favour before; he also couldn’t imagine what in the general boredom that was Torchwood Two could _potentially_ require his help.

Archie made a sound that _might_ have meant exasperation, if he weren’t… well, _Archie_. There was precious little that could shake him out of his calm… usually, at least.

“Aye,” he replied. “Fact is, I’d need someone to meet the brass of UNIT, but they’re not even answerin’ my calls. You’ve got a much better contact to them – perhaps they’re gonna listen to _you_.”

“Perhaps,” Jack allowed carefully. “What is this all about?”

“I cannae tell you; not through this channel… it isnae secure enough,” Archie replied. “Let’s just say that Torchwood Two has worked with the US Air Force on a… a _special_ project. It’s reached a critical phase, and they need more help than I’d be able to provide. UNIT does have the resources, and once my… _associate_ gets to meet with anyone of importance, he can provide the necessary credentials to actually _get_ that help. They’re just bein’ boars and wouldnae answer me, cos I’m not such a big name as you are."

Jack nodded. It had been somewhat typical for UNIT since the Brigadier had retired from active duty.

“I see what I can do,” he promised. “Who’s this guy you wanted to meet them?”

“I believe you know him already,” Archie replied. “His name’s Ianto Jones. If I’m not mistaken, he’s worked for ya for a couple o’ years.”

For a moment, Jack completely forgot to breathe. He hadn’t heard anything from Ianto after that last, awkward parting video message. He’d had no idea that the young man was back on Earth.

“Yes, he has,” he finally replied. “I thought he was… elsewhere lately, though.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Archie agreed. “He’s just come back a couple o’ days ago... temporarily, I’d say. He’s gotta meet important folks on the behalf of his new boss, and but a few weeks to do so before going back… well, wherever he’s posted now. I havnae the faintest idea where _that_ might be. Problem is, _I_ cannae get him into UNIT – but perhaps _you_ can.”

“I might,” Jack said thoughtfully. “I wonder, though, why hasn’t he turned to me in the first place. I didn’t even know you guys knew each other.”

“We didn’t, actually,” Archie replied. “And it wasn’t him who turned to me, either. He escorted one of Torchwood Two’s freelance co-workers back, who’s in the need of medical treatment; and _that_ guy was the one who sought me out.”

“I see,” Jack said, a little mollified. “Do you know where Ianto is right now?”

“He’s in Glasgow,” Archie told him readily. “We need ta correlate some data concerning the research work of my freelancer, and he’s the man with the information. But he planned to go to London the day after tomorrow. He’s got a meeting with the Premier Minister and hopes you can arrange one for him with the UNIT brass, too.”

“I’ll need to make a few calls,” Jack said, “but I think that will be doable. I’ll give him a call when I’m done… assuming he still has his old mobile.”

“I’d think he does,” Archie said. “By the look of it, he’s using a Torchwood-updated model. But you won’t be able to reach him before tonight. He’s off to the Torchwood House, and you know how hard it is to get a connection there. He’s oughtta be back before ten pm, though, or so he said.”

“Is he staying with you?” Jack asked. He didn’t really think Archie would be Ianto’s type – besides, Ianto was a monogamist by his very nature – but he still couldn’t quite suppress jealousy rearing its ugly head.

“Nay,” Archie replied. “He’s staying with the Becketts – well, with olde Mrs Beckett, that is. Due to a case of some mistaken identity, she was told that Carson had died on some remote outpost two years ago. Imagine the shock that poor woman suffered when her son, whom she’d buried and mourned for, all of a sudden popped up again, alive and hale… well, _relatively_ hale, that is.

Jack could vividly imagine _that_. He wasn’t terribly surprised, either, that Ianto had spontaneously decided to stay in Glasgow and provide the old lady with some much-needed moral support. That was what Ianto _did_ , all the time. Jack would bet he hadn’t even contacted his sister yet.

“All right,” he said. “Tell him I’ll do my best with UNIT… and that I’ll call him. I assume it’s urgent.”

“It probably is,” Archie replied. “He’s scheduled to leave again in three weeks’ time.”

In three weeks! Jack knew Ianto probably hadn’t planned to return to Earth at all, not before the end of his one-year tour, and that he probably wouldn’t want a personal encounter just yet. It had been the whole point of accepting this new job of his and leaving Torchwood for good: to put enough distance between himself and Jack, until he figured out what he really wanted… what he really _needed_.

Jack knew he should respect Ianto’s choice… and he did, honestly. Still the opportunity to seem him again was just too good to let it slip through his fingers. Jack hated to admit, but life had been lonely without Ianto in these months. All of a sudden, he felt the overwhelming urge to see Ianto again.

He left his office and walked over to Tosh’ former workstation that now belonged to Sara Lloyd.

“Are you busy?” he asked. Lloyd smiled up to him in a completely impersonal, work-related manner. She turned out to be one of the few people completely immune to the infamous Harkness charm. Jack still hadn’t decided whether that was a good thing or a personal insult.

“Always,” she replied. “Not too busy to do just one more thing, though. What do you need from me?”

“I’d like you to check someone’s personal background for me,” Jack said. “A man named Carson Beckett. He’s presumably from Glasgow and was affiliated with Torchwood Two as a freelance co-worker.”

“That should be easy,” Lloyd commented. “Just how many local people, do you think, would have worked for Torchwood Two?”

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. “Archie’s a sneaky one. And since he doesn’t have a team, he depends on freelancers. I’d bet some of them don’t even know whom they’re working for.”

“Well, _someone_ ought to take the _secret_ part of the secret organization more seriously,” Lloyd commented dryly, while she was typing away on his keyboard with astonishing speed. Then she raised an eyebrow. “Oh. That was fast.”

“You got something?” Jack, too, was surprised.

Lloyd nodded. “Yeah, I do. Here’s one Carson Beckett, Dr. Med., born in 1969, in Glasgow. Parents are Gordon Beckett, deceased, and Fiona Buchanan. He’s the second-youngest of seven siblings. Graduated from the _University of Glasgow Medical School_ in 1988 but spent there four more postgraduate years to qualify himself as a research geneticist. For financial reasons, he chose to work in the A &E section of the _Royal Hospital of Glasgow_ , until he got an offer from the _Institute for Genomic Research_ in Rockville, Maryland, six years ago, where he worked with Dr. Thomas Harlowe. Wait a minute! This says he was declared dead and actually _buried_ two years ago? What the hell…”

“According to Archie, it was a case of mistaken identity,” Jack explained. “He was assigned to some top secret projects of the US Air Force, on some remote outpost, so communication wasn’t the best.”

“There couldn’t have been much of the actual body left, if they managed to identify it falsely,” as an ex-SOCO member, Lloyd was quite the expert in such things. “But where had he been for the last two years, then, before appearing out of nowhere again?”

Jack shrugged. “Captured by the enemy, I suppose. Archie says he’s in a serious medical condition.”

“Do you think he was in Iraq?” Lloyd asked with a frown. “Or Afghanistan? Why would they need a geneticist there? For biological warfare? Don’t they have their own people for the dirty work?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Jack admitted. “It could have been the exact opposite, though. They might have needed him to fight the effects of some biological weapon,” he looked at the photo on Lloyd’s screen. Somehow he had a hard time to imagine that this gentle-faced man with those guileless blue eyes could work on a biological weapon – but appearances could be misleading.

“Hey, who’s this bloke?” Gwen, arriving via invisible lift, with Rhys in tow, asked, interested. “He’s freaking cute!”

Jack rolled his eyes. Since the alien meatball incident – but especially after Tosh’ and Owen’s death – Gwen had picked up the custom to drag Rhys into the Hub with her, uninvited. Perhaps she tried to save their marriage by spending more time with her hubby, and for the time being, Rhys seemed to accept the fact that he was to spend his spare time at Torchwood. He didn’t seem to be happy about it; and neither was Jack. The Hub was a dangerous place for a civilian. But it was hard to talk Gwen out of _anything_ she thought was necessary, so for the time being Jack chose to tolerate the situation.

Besides, Rhys seemed to enjoy Emma’s company, and the poor man deserved a little harmless fun from time to time. God knew he put up with enough.

“Jack, talk to me!” Gwen insisted. “Who’s this bloke and what does he have to do with us.”

“Nothing,” Jack replied dismissively. “He works for Torchwood Two… well, used to.”

But nobody dismissed Gwen Cooper-Williams when she wanted to know something.

“But you told me Torchwood Two was just an office in Glasgow, run by a strange little man,” she pointed out, widening her eyes, begging for more details. In some things she _did_ have an excellent memory.

Jack nodded. “And so it is. Doctor Beckett was a freelance co-worker who only helped with special projects.”

The word _special_ always had the effect of alarm klaxons on Gwen. “What kind of projects?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replied, a little impatiently now. “Archie doesn’t have to report to me, so I can’t possibly be informed about all the projects Torchwood Two is involved in.”

“What do you want of him, then?” Gwen drilled on doggedly. Jack sighed in exasperation.

“I don’t want _anything_ from him. Archie called me on his behalf, and I became curious who he was, that’s all.”

“But why would you be interested in the freelancers of Torchwood Two?” Gwen went on unerringly. If nothing else, she was persistent in her dogged pursuits of things that were nowhere near her business, one had to give her _that_.

Jack shrugged. “I just wanted to know whom Ianto is working with right now.”

Gwen stared at him in unfeigned surprise. By the shock on her face, it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Ianto’s back? Since when? And he works for Torchwood Two now?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Jack replied with forced patience. “And he’s only back for a few weeks, tops.”

“Seems he’s found a new shag-buddy soon enough,” Gwen said so sweetly it could have given one a toothache. “And older men definitely appear to be his cup of tea.”

“Are ya daft, Gwen?” Rhys said before Jack could have exploded right into her face. “Just cos they work together, it doesn’t mean they’d shag, too. I don’t shag Alison, either,” he added in exasperation, reflecting to his secretary.

“You aren’t gay, either,” Gwen pointed out.

Rhys shrugged. “So what? You think just cos someone walks both sides of the street, they’d jump the bones of anyone who crosses their way?”

“Don’t they, though?” Gwen asked sweetly, giving Jack an insufferably smug glance. Rhys shrugged again.

“I don’t know about your boss here, but Ianto’s a decent bloke. I wish I had known him better. I’m sure we’d have gotten along well. Ain’t he coming back some day?”

“Not for a while, he won’t,” Jack said with a sigh. “He’s only back to get something important done. And since he has a scheduled meeting with the Prime Minister within two days, I doubt he’d have the time to drop in for a visit.”

“The Prime Minister?” Gwen repeated in open-mouthed shock. “He’s gonna meet the Prime Minister? _Ianto_?”

“It won’t be the first time,” Jack reminded her. “It was the Prime Minister who chose him for his current job, after all. Now, if you’d excuse me, I’ve got a few phone calls to make.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He retreated to his office and closed the door, just in case Gwen would give in to her nosiness and walk in unexpectedly. _That_ wouldn’t have been the first time, either; and he needed to focus.

Getting hold of someone on the command level of UNIT wasn’t the problem; not for him. As an ex-companion of the Doctor, he had a unique status in the eyes of the brass of the organisation. The problem was to find the right person to turn to.

Since the retirement of Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, several successors followed, none of which could even get close to the Brigadier’s format. Jack could have called the Brigadier himself, of course; despite being retired, the old man still had considerable influence. But he didn’t want to break out the really big guns right at the beginning. Perhaps there was another way to get the job done.

At the moment, things were run by General Augustus Oduya, with Colonel Alan Mace as his exec. Which meant, Ianto would have to get through Mace first… and good old Colonel Ironpants hadn’t gotten his nickname for nothing. He wouldn’t deal with a _civilian_ who wasn’t even a member of Torchwood anymore. They needed someone to ease Ianto’s way in.

Jack studied the contact list of UNIT officers he knew personally, and after a short hesitation, he chose Captain Erisa Magambo. She was a highly competent officer, highly valued by her superiors. But she wasn’t the person Jack wanted to employ; it was her associate, a certain Professor Malcolm Taylor, a somewhat eccentric but brilliant scientist. Dr. Taylor, one of UNIT’s foremost scientific advisors, was a Welshman, but lived currently in London, working at the most important UNIT lab there. 

Seeing that his call number was registered under Captain Magambo’s, Jack nodded contentedly. _That_ was the man he needed.

He dialled the number. The call was accepted within seconds by someone with a Welsh accent.

“Professor Taylor?” he asked, just to be sure. “I’m Captain Jack Harkness from Torchwood Cardiff. Listen, Professor, I need your help…”

It appeared that – just like Archie – the UNIT scientist knew a great deal more about Ianto’s mysterious off-world job than Jack did. Taylor didn’t seem to be surprised at all, seemed to know who Dr. Carson Beckett was, and promised to do his best to get Ianto into Colonel Ironpant’s office.

“Of course, it would be a lot easier if _you_ made an appearance, too,” he said. “Your name has a certain… weight with the brass, Captain Harkness. You aren’t just Torchwood, after all; you also used to be a _companion_.” It was a known fact that Professor Taylor idolised the Doctor, and that somewhat… _coloured_ his attitude towards all ex-companions.

That was fine with Jack, especially as it gave him the best possible excuse to meet Ianto again. He gave Professor Taylor the number of his mobile phone and promised to come when called. He didn’t mind going to London, either. Perhaps it was time to take a closer look at whatever UNIT was doing in these days.

But first he had to do something for himself. He needed to see this Dr. Beckett, up close, to see if he was any serious competition for him. He didn’t really think so, but the seed of doubt was sown, and he simply had to be sure.

He walked out into the main working area and asked Emma, who was working on Ianto’s old computer, to find him the earliest flight to Glasgow.

“You visiting Torchwood Two for a change?” Mickey, who’d just returned from Weevil hunting and was now having a beer with Rhys and their new medic, asked casually. Jack nodded.

“It seems Archie needs my help with UNIT,” he said. “I’ll leave you in charge, Mickey. It’s only for a few days…”

“ _Him_?” Gwen demanded, clearly insulted. “Why him? He’s a newbie, Jack! _I have_ lead the team while you were away with the Doctor, and I’ve lead them well enough. _I’m_ your second in command.”

“Who would ever tell you that?” Jack asked in honest surprise. “I haven’t officially named an exec since Suzie’s death, and if I did, it would have been Owen; he was the next-oldest member of the team. What makes you think you’d be fit for command? That the others humoured you during my absence?” 

Gwen was gaping for air, unable to answer. Jack shrugged and added. “Besides, Mickey isn’t just a newbie. He’s an ex-companion, and that more than qualifies him to temporarily replace me here.”

Gwen was still completely speechless. Before she could have recovered, Emma turned away from her screen. “Sir, I’ve found a flight for you. It leaves in two hours; you can still get it if you hurry up.”

“Great,” Jack said, picking up his always pre-packed emergency bag. “I’ll just hurry up, then.”


	15. Home Planet Revisited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archie of Torchwood Two is canon, of course. Everything about him is entirely my doing, though. Details concerning Harry Sullivan are the result of Internet research. If they don’t match, take the AU label into consideration.
> 
> Yes, there’s another Evil Time Shift™ in this part. Yes, it’s still intentional and happens with a deeper reason.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**PART 13 – HOME PLANET REVISITED**

Returning to Earth via Stargate turns out rather anticlimactic for Ianto. The practical-minded Major Lorne chased him back and forth through the Atlantis Gate to several safe locations before their actual departure; so when it’s time to go on the really big journey between galaxies, his body has already grown used to molecular decompression. It spares him the indignity to arrive at the SGC on all fours, covered in frost and throwing up promptly, as it often happens to first-time travellers.

Besides, the SGC-veterans Lorne and Bates assure him, the Pegasus Gates are moderner, more advanced models, so the side effects of first-time Gate travel are considerably less severe. And they entertain him with highly embarrassing stories about their fellow officers and other people.

Side effects or not, Gate travel is an incredible experience. It’s way too quick to get any real impression of what’s truly happening to the traveller, of course. Ianto still experiences the same sense of wonder, even at the sixth or seventh time. He hopes it will never completely fade out. He can’t understand why Dr. Beckett is so obviously nervous about it. But they’re different people, and he’s getting the impression that Carson Beckett isn’t fond of fanciful technology, Ancient or otherwise. He’s a very down-to-earth person.

Which, considering that his very existence is a result of fanciful technology, is rather strange.

Back at the SGC, they’re reunited with some old acquaintances; or rather Dr. Beckett does. He’s worked closely with the Air Force doctors and is now welcomed with open arms; the fact that most of them aren’t informed about his true identity probably makes things easier for him.

Ianto, for his part, finally gets to meet the infamous Dr. Kavanagh. The notorious one everybody in Atlantis – with the exception of Dr. Simpson – loves to hate. The one generally called “that jerk”, “that long-haired hippie” or “that obnoxious idiot”. To his surprise, Ianto find someone who, while certainly more than a little abrasive, is almost as intelligent as McKay or Zelenka… someone who’s equally dedicated to his work and isn’t willing to take unnecessary risks just to get the job done. Some people might see that as cowardice, but Ianto has seen too many senseless deaths due to certain people’s megalomania to blame the man.

Kavanagh is moderately civil to him; he sees the chance of overseeing the production of spare parts for Atlantis clearly as a long-overdue recognition of his abilities. He even unbends enough to have coffee with his visitor, and they even end up briefly talking about their families. It turns out he’s a single dad, raising two little sons – one of them suffering from the Fragile X Syndrome – with the help of his sister and her husband.

Ianto doesn’t ask why he’d choose to go with the original Atlantis expedition that could very well have been a one-way trip. Dr. Kavanagh is obviously very interested in the Stargate project and what it could mean for the safety of Earth; besides, the SGC paycheck must come in handy when someone has a child with such an illness. Still, it couldn’t have been easy, either for him or his family.

Kavanagh doesn’t speak about that, and Ianto doesn’t ask. When he hands the man Dr. Simpson’s letter, though, he’s surprised to see the abrasive scientist blush ever so slightly.

“If you want to send Dr. Simpson an answer… or anything else, I’ll gladly take it on my way back,” he offers. “She seems to be missing you. She says she hasn’t had anyone to fight with since you left.”

Kavanagh’s pale cheeks are colouring again, but he just shrugs and murmurs something unintelligible. Ianto’s certain that it means he’s missing Dr. Simpson as well. He’s just sharing the characteristic male inability of expressing his feelings. For a moment, Ianto has to think of Jack who never had problems with showing how he felt. Apparently, thirty centuries in the future human males have finally overcome that in-built emotional blockade.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It turns out, though, that Jack Harkness isn’t the only human male to express his feelings most empathically. Carson Beckett is apparently one of the very few contemporary men on the Western hemisphere who have absolutely no problems in that particular area, either.

The SGC wants to keep him in Colorado Springs, to treat him either in their own sickbay or in the Air Force Hospital. The Scotsman, however, adamantly – and very vocally – refuses to stay. He wants to go back to _Glasgow Royal_ , his old workplace – even though it actually used to be the workplace of the _original_ Dr. Beckett – and he wants to see his mother again. Even though, technically, Mrs. Fiona Buchanan-Beckett isn’t _his_ mother.

The senior staff of the Stargate project doesn’t find this such a good idea. As a result, the debriefing in the SGC conference room is _not_ a very cordial one.

“And what are you gonna tell her, Doctor?” General Landry demands.

Beckett shrugs. “That the Air Force has made a bloody mistake, what else?” he snaps.

“That’s not that simple,” Dr. Lam, the Chief Medical Officer of the base says. “How do you want to explain the body they’ve brought back for funeral two years ago?”

The question takes the wind off Beckett’s sail for a moment. He desperately glances at Ianto for help.

“A case of mistaken identification perhaps?” Ianto suggests. “As far as I’ve been informed, the body was too… _damaged_ for visual identification. They’ve buried a _closed_ coffin, haven’t they?”

“Official identification is always done on the basis of a routine DNA test,” Dr. Lam points out. “And DNA can hardly be misinterpreted.”

“Perhaps,” Ianto says calmly. “But Doctor Beckett has treated just about everyone in Atlantis. His DNA was likely to be found all over the infirmary, wasn’t it? A tragic mistake, yes, but a mistake nonetheless.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dr. Lam says. “No halfway competent doctor would ever buy that story.”

“They don’t have to,” Ianto shrugs. “It’s enough if Mrs. Beckett believes it. And she won’t have any reason to ask questions when she’s going to see the living proof. No mother would.”

“You’re willing to take part in this… _charade_?” the general demands angrily.

Ianto gives him an icy look. “I was sent to Atlantis to represent British interests that had been neglected in the recent years. Doctor Beckett is a citizen of the United Kingdom, and as such, he’s _my_ responsibility. I won’t let him fall to the roadside, just because his somewhat… _unorthodox_ origins are uncomfortable for you.”

“But this… this person _isn’t_ exactly Doctor Beckett, is he?” General Landry asks slowly, with an unpleasant little smile.

“For all means and purposes, he _is_ ,” Ianto replies calmly. “Or he’s the closest thing to Doctor Carson Beckett that we have, and my government will gladly accept him the way he is. He still has Doctor Beckett’s knowledge and excellent abilities; both things that are highly useful and much needed.”

“You’re hardly the one to make that decision,” the general says, and an edge of threat is now unmistakable in his voice. But if he believes he can intimidate Ianto Jones, a survivor of Canary Wharf and a years-long Torchwood veteran, he’s sorely mistaken.

“Oh, yes, it is,” Ianto returns. “I’ve got sufficient authority to make any decision concerning those British citizens who’re participating in the Atlantis project. If you believe you can deny everything that happened, General… well, think again! I used to work for Torchwood London; do you really think I wouldn’t have taken precautions, just in case I’d suddenly and unexpectedly vanish from the playground?”

The question is a rhetorical one, and they all know it. Landry doesn’t even make an attempt to answer it.

“There are several coded messages, hidden in the computer databases of the right persons that would unexpectedly surface in the case of my sudden demise,” Ianto says coolly. “One of those people is the Prime Minister of Great Britain, who’s personally selected me for this job. Others include the commanding officers of UNIT and the leaders of both existing Torchwood branches,” he pauses, giving the flabbergasted general a bland smile. “Don’t try to fight me in this, General; you’d lose. I know more tricks than you can even dream of; and I fight dirty.”

General Landry is still completely speechless when Ianto rises from the conference table and leaves, taking Dr. Beckett with him. His I.O.A. pass opens all doors for him, and he moves through the twenty-seven levels of the SGC with such a calm confidence that nobody tries to stop him or to ask any questions.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He takes Beckett to the same hotel in which Martha and he used to stay upon their arrival to the States. He then contacts the I.O.A. representative of the United Kingdom, using his modified mobile phone that Tosh has upgraded, using alien technology, to make the calls secure, and tells the man that he’d be arriving in Glasgow within two days, bringing a very important person with him.

Using a code known only to very few people, just in case the call isn’t as secure as he hopes for, he also asks for a discreet security escort. UNIT has civilian agents in Colorado Springs; Ianto knows that, even though he doesn’t know who they are, personally, but he counts on their presence and skills. From now on, they’d be watched till the plane touches down in Glasgow.

Dr. Beckett watches his activities with growing respect.

“Ya do know what you’re doin’, don’t ya, laddie?” he asks. “There was a moment I wasnae sure we’d get out of the SGC at all. But ya didnae place coded messages in the Prime Minister’s own computer, did ya?”

“Of course I did,” Ianto replies calmly. “It’s no use to make threats when you can’t fulfil them if necessary. I used to work with a computer genius; she taught me a lot, and there aren’t many systems I couldn’t break in if I really put my mind to it. But in the case of Prime Minister Jones I actually do have legal access… well, to a certain level anyway. She _wanted_ to be informed about everything that’s going on in Atlantis, and she didn’t trust the US Air Force to tell her the whole truth. That’s why I was sent to Atlantis in the first place.”

“And ya know fer certain that they’ll accept me at home?” Dr. Beckett asks doubtfully.

Ianto nods. “As long as you’ve got the knowledge they want, they won’t care. Government agencies are remarkably ruthless in that area.”

“I still havnae got a clue how I’ll tell me Mum, though,” Beckett admits. “She’s very delicate, me mother – as sweet a soul as you’ll ever meet; as pure as the driven snow. If I just show up on her doorstep, when she’s thought I was dead, she might get a heart attack, and I cannae have _that_.”

“That’s why _you_ won’t show up on her doorstep; not yet, anyway,” Ianto replies. “ _I_ will.”

Beckett looks at him in surprise. “Ya’d do it? But what will ya tell her, where do ya know me from?”

“That’s the easy part,” Ianto says. “You used to do some freelance work for Torchwood Glasgow, right?”

“Aye, that I did. Alien genetic research, mostly… not that I wouldae known what it really was at that time.”

“Did your Mam know about it?”

“Aye, but fer her, Torchwood was only a name on a paycheck. I was the last o’ us still livin’ with her, ya know.”

“Still she’d be at least familiar with the _name_ ,” Ianto points out. “I’ll tell her that I’m from Torchwood… which is true, in a sense. I’ll present the story about the mistaken identification very carefully; then I’ll tell her where to find you and will escort her to you to the hospital.”

“Aye, but will she buy yer story?” Beckett asks in concern.

Ianto shrugs and his eyes darken a little. “I’m a skilled liar. I’m not proud of it, but there was a time when I had no other choice. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure she believes it.”

“But why would ya go such lengths to help me?” Beckett wonders. “Ya didnae even know me… the _old_ me, I mean… we’ve just met a couple o’ days ago.”

“Cos I know all too well what it means having a secret you cannot tell those closest to you,” Ianto answers, remembering how he had to isolate himself from everyone – especially from his sister and her family – after the Battle of Canary Wharf, hiding away in a bleak little flat with Lisa’s half-transformed body, deathly afraid of being found out and killed, together with her, by the UNIT soldiers.

How he wished someone would help him. The lengths he’d go to get into Torchwood Three, where he could hide her safely. The fear, the stress, the guilt about betraying his colleagues, misleading Jack, the desperate hope for a miracle that wouldn’t happen… the tragedy in which it all ended.

“Nobody should face something like that alone,” he adds quietly, and the tears of gratitude shining unshed in Beckett’s blue eyes almost make him feel ashamed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Two days later, after Beckett has been thoroughly examined by the doctors of the SGC and given his newest results in digital format, they board their plane to Glasgow. Beckett is nervous and exhausted. He’s not certain whom he can really trust, not even back home. He seems to put all his hopes in _one_ man – and that one, to Ianto’s surprise, is nobody else but Sir Archibald McAllister, the leader of Torchwood Two, who – according to Jack – runs his small office in Glasgow single-handedly.

Beckett asks to use his secure phone, and Ianto hands it to him without question. The doctor talks to someone for a short while, using such a heavy accent that Ianto barely understands one world out of then. Then he disconnects, gives the phone back and tells Ianto that Sir Archibald – whom he, too, calls Archie, just like Jack – would pick them up at the airport. Ianto doesn’t really want to reconnect with anything Torchwood-related so soon, but if this makes Beckett feel safer, he’s willing to do it.

McAllister, whom Jack always called “a strange little man”, is definitely a surprise for Ianto. Somehow he’s always expected the Torchwood Two leader to be a balding old drunkard with the habit of smoking chain. Who’s waiting for them at the Glasgow Airport is instead clearly a cultured man in his mid-forties, who looks like a younger, more elegant and refined version of Paul McCarthy, with collar-length, light brown hair and watery blue eyes.

He’s also wearing a kilt, and Ianto begins to understand that Jack wasn’t entirely wrong calling him _strange_. He’s by no means _little_ , though. He’s easily as tall as Beckett, and in a great shape for his age. The ease with which he moves around speaks of regular visits in the gym, and aside from the kilt, he’s really well-dressed. He also drives a fairly elegant convertible, with which he takes them to Torchwood Two.

The Glasgow branch is indeed just an office. A relatively small but technically up-to-date one, hidden in the basement of the huge Victorian mansion of Sir Archibald’s family that also houses a private library with exclusive membership and where Sir Archibald also lives. Apparently, he’s a known researcher of local history, which is as good a disguise for a supposedly secret organization as one could wish for.

He seems to have good connections, too, as he gets Beckett a private room in the _Glasgow Royal_ within half an hour and Ianto a private audience with Prime Minister Jones at about the same time. Ianto could have gotten through to the Prime Minister on his own, of course, but that would have meant half a dozen virtual checkpoints, at the very last. Archie – who insist that Ianto, too call him exactly that – punches through the resistance of government bureaucracy at once.

He doesn’t seem to have the same luck with UNIT, though. He tries to get the office of General Oduya at least a dozen times, but each time he’s either left waiting infinitely, or the person on the other end of the connection hangs up on him.

“It isnae any good,” he finally says, clearly frustrated. “We oughtta ask Jack Harkness to put in a word for us by UNIT.”

Understandably enough, Ianto isn’t comfortable with _that_ thought. The last thing he wants is to contact Jack right now. He feels far from ready to face his former boss and ex-lover just yet.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “In theory, my I.O.A. pass should get me into UNIT’s headquarters without any problems.”

“And it would, wasnae Colonel Ironpants the one dealing with such matters,” Archie replies sourly. “He’s havin’ a… _problematic_ relationship with Mr. Campbell, the British I.O.A. representative and does his best – or shouldae I say his worst – to undermine any possible co-operation between him and UNIT.”

“How… infantile,” Ianto comments with a frown. Archie shrugs.

“Certain forms of competitive military mindset often are. But even Colonel Mace wouldnae dare to shut off Jack Harkness. As an ex-companion, he’s got a unique status in their eyes,” he gives Ianto a mildly curious look. “What’s yer problem with Jack? Ya used to work for him, didnae ya?”

“Used to,” Ianto emphasizes. “Past tense. It’s… personal.”

Those pale, intelligent eyes search his face for a moment, and then Archie shrugs again.

"Well, it’s yer call, obviously. But unless ya wannae waste yer time and probably even miss yer ship, I suggest ya swallow yer pride and let me call someone who’s actually capable of helpin’.”

“I’ll... think about it,” Ianto still isn’t willing to give in just yet. “ _After_ I’ve talked to Mrs. Beckett. Also I’d like to visit Torchwood House and look up some potential records about a certain alien race. Can you grant me access?”

Archie nods.” Aye, I can do that, and I shall. Ya think Jack wouldae deleted yer access code from the security system, though?”

“He’d hardly have any other choice,” Ianto reminds him. “The Queen officially released me from all Torchwood-related obligations. That means I won’t have any security clearances left, either.”

“Ya shouldnae be so sure,” Archie says. “Jack plays by his own rules. But I can let ya in anyway. When’d ya wanna go out there?”

Ianto thinks for a moment. “Perhaps the day after tomorrow,” he decides. “I want to take Dr. Beckett to the hospital first, and see that he’s taken care of properly. Tomorrow, I’ll visit his Mam and that might take some time. If we can’t get into UNIT by then, I’ll consider contacting Jack. That’d still be soon enough, I reckon.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
On the next day, Ianto escorts Beckett to the _Glasgow Royal_ , where they’re already expected by an elderly gentleman in the rank of a Commodore of the Royal Navy. Ianto, who’s memorized every single detail concerning the Doctor in the Torchwood Archives, recognizes the man, of course. It’s Dr. Harry Sullivan, another ex-companion of the Doctor… of a much earlier incarnation of the Time Lord, to be more accurate. As a surgeon-lieutenant, the man also used to be the medical officer of UNIT once, and the records say that – although working for the NATO now – he still hasn’t turned his back on his true vocation as a doctor. Nor has he lost interest in what might be there in outer space.

Still, it’s a little surprising that he’d have such detailed knowledge about Carson Beckett’s person and… unique situation as he seems to have.

“I’ve been contacted by President Henry Hayes,” he explains. “I’m no longer working for UNIT, of course; however, I _have_ been involved in the Stargate project as an advisor since it was disclosed to the United Kingdom. It seems our American friends have a vexed interest in Doctor Beckett…”

“Which is a sound enough reason for you to hold a protective hand over him, Commodore,” Ianto answers seriously. “I’ve done what I could to get him out of their clutches, but…”

The Englishman laughs. “Yes, I’ve heard that you actually had the cheek to threaten General Landry in his own office. You’re a feisty little thing, Mr. Jones. I like that.”

The due respect towards the high-ranking Navy officer prevents Ianto from shrugging.

“Well, sir, I’m Welsh,” is all he answers. “As the English have learned during our shared history, we aren’t easily intimidated by foreigners. Still, I hope you’ve got sufficient authority to protect Doctor Beckett, cos I’m not sure my modest credentials would be enough.”

“Probably not,” Sullivan agrees. “But don’t worry. I can and will protect him. We just have to synchronize the stories we tell others carefully… for his sake as much as for yours. This could easily become a power play in a big political game, and _that_ wouldn’t be safe, for either of you.”

Ianto nods. “I know that, sir. I’ll do my best to keep us both under the radar… as far as possible. But I need to meet someone from the command level of UNIT to get help for the Atlantis expedition – can you help me with that?”

“If I were still part of UNIT, I certainly could,” Sullivan sighs. “But Colonel Mace doesn’t trust people who work for the NATO any more than he trusts the I.O.A. I’m afraid Sir Archibald is right; Jack Harkness is your best chance.”

“Terrific,” Ianto comments sarcastically. “I do my best to get out of Torchwood, miraculously manage to be discharged by Her Majesty, and a couple of months later… boom! I’m back again. Ain’t I a lucky bloke? Once Torchwood, always Torchwood.”

“No-one says you ought to go back,” Sullivan points out. “It’s just fact that Captain Harkness is the one with the official contact…. and the one who deals best with idiots.”

Ianto sighs. “I know. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with _him_ again. Not so soon anyway.” He doesn’t add _It takes one to know one_ , although he’s sorely tempted.

“You don’t have to,” the commodore offers. “Let Sir Archibald pull the strings. Despite appearances, he and Captain Harkness are said to have a fairly good working relationship.”

After a moment of consideration Ianto nods reluctantly. Now that he’s met Archie personally, he’s quite certain that the Scotsman can handle Jack well enough. And Jack _does_ have the best connections to the UNIT brass.

“Splendid,” Sullivan says, seeing that he’s all but given in already. “Now let’s see Doctor Beckett settled and cared for, and then you can tell me how Martha’s doing. She’s a very bright girl; I can’t wait to hear what she’s been up to lately… and fortunately, I’ve got a high enough security clearance to know it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the next morning, Ianto is standing in front of an old, decidedly unspectacular house in one of the Glasgow suburbs, determined – although not quite ready – to face the old lady of whom her son was vexing poetic every time she’s come up in the conversation. He’s studied the family history of the Becketts and knows that Mrs Beckett couldn’t be quite as delicate as Carson sees her. No woman who gave birth to seven children and raised them mostly on her own – as her husband had to work from dawn to dusk to feed them all – could be particularly delicate. Ianto is sure that she’ll turn out one tough old lady.

What he’s learned of the Becketts indicates a simple, honest, hard-working family. Carson’s father, who died shortly after his graduation from medical school, used to be a riveter, working in the shipyards. His mother – the same old lady Ianto is about to face now – cleaned houses for the rich of the city, as with her all too frequent pregnancies (aside from her seven living children, she also had four miscarriages) she couldn’t hope to find any other work. Ianto was surprised by the depth of detail in Carson’s file but has understood by now that most came from Carson himself, who so very obviously adores his mother.

Carson’s eldest sisters married young and worked hard all their lives. His brothers followed their father’s footsteps. As Carson himself was very good at school and wanted to become a doctor, the whole clan put their resources together to pay for his education. The news of his death must have been devastating for them all. All of a sudden, Ianto isn’t as sure any more that he’ll be able to sell them a miraculously resurrected Carson. They might be simple, but they’re clearly no idiots.

Still, he has to try. Because if they want to keep this second Carson Beckett alive, and Ianto has come to like the man well enough for himself, aside from his usefulness for the Stargate programme, they’ll need the support of his family.

Overcoming his hesitation, Ianto rings the bell. The woman who comes to answer it is elderly and fragile-looking and at least a head shorter than her son, and Ianto understands why Carson sees her as _delicate_ – any big, strong man would. But he can tell that her fragile looks are misleading. There’s steely strength in that thin little body that carried eleven children and gave birth to seven. Her face, though deeply lined with past hardships and sorrows, also shows plenty of laughing lines around the pale blue eyes, and her mouth is firm and resolute like that of those who are used to tell their opinions bluntly.

She looks up at the tall, unknown young man in the fitted three-piece suit that seems such a foreign element in this simple environment. Her eyes are curious but wary behind the wire-rimmed glasses. Clearly, strangers dropping by unexpectedly mean bad news for her. Her short hair is coloured a light brown, and that colour makes her look a lot younger than she actually is.

“Mrs Beckett?” Ianto asks, just to be sure. There’s little chance that she’d be anyone else, but he’s never seen a photo of her – all Carson’s personal stuff was sent back to Earth after his death – and needs her identity to be confirmed.

“Aye, that I am,” she replies, sounding astonishingly like her son, despite the differences in timbre. “Can I help ya, sir?”

“My name is Ianto Jones,” Ianto introduces himself, for the lack of anything better to begin with. “I used to work for Torchwood, just like Carson… Doctor Beckett... only for the Cardiff branch. Now I’m working for the same project he’s gone to the States for…”

“I hope fer ya that ya wouldnae end up dead like him,” Mrs Beckett replies, her eyes clouded with pain. “Why ye’re here, though, I cannae understand. I don’t know a thing what Carson is – _was_ – doin’ there. It was all secret stuff, he couldnae tell me anythin’ at all.”

“I know,” Ianto says. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m here cos the brass in the States made a horrible mistake and now they need someone to make it right again.”

“And that would be ya?” she asks doubtfully. “Ain’t ya a wee bit young fer that?”

“That’s my job,” Ianto answers simply. “They mess up and I clean up after them. Please, Mrs Beckett, may I come in? This isn’t something we should discuss on the open street.”

She actually _blushes_ at that. “Why, of course, lad, where are me manners? Come in, come in; I’ve just baked some fresh scones – we can have a cup o’ tea together.”

Ianto prefers coffee ten times out of ten, but home-made scones sound tempting; and besides, this gets him into the house. So he follows Mrs Beckett into the old-fashioned little kitchen, the single window of which looks at a tiny back yard, where petunias of all colours are blooming triumphantly, even though their season should already be over. He’s given a chair at the kitchen table, while a younger woman in her mid-thirties and with an unmistakable likeness to Carson Beckett sets up the kettle, and Mrs Beckett takes the fresh blueberry scones out of the oven.

“Me youngest, Morag,” she introduces the younger woman. “Whatever this is about, ya can tell within her earshot.”

Ianto nods. He’s actually grateful for the presence of Carson’s youngest sister. She’d know what to do, should Mrs Beckett not take the shocking news well.

“Of course, ma’am,” he says. “Now, there’s no way to do this gently, so I’ll be blunt: how much were you told about the circumstances of Doctor Beckett’s – _Carson_ ’s – death?”

“Not much,” Morag replies with a shrug. “Apparently, there was an explosion, and me brother was in the middle of it. It mustae been real bad, as they sent us a _sealed_ coffin. We couldnae even take proper leave o’ him,” her eyes narrow. She’s clearly figured out half of it already. “Wait a minute! Are ya tellin’ us it wasnae me brother in that bloody coffin, after all? That we’ve buried and mourned a complete stranger?”

Ianto hates to lie to them – after all, they _have_ buried and mourned Carson – but the _second_ Carson will need them desperately.

“Doctor Beckett was operating on an injured scientist when their outpost was attacked,” he explains. “Several people died, including his patient, and the… the remains were not easily identified. That was quite the explosion.”

“But they have those effin’ DNA-tests these days, havnae they?” Morag asks, as her mother is still too frozen with shock to react.

Ianto nods. “Of course. But you must understand: it was Doctor Beckett’s operation room. His DNA was scattered all over the place…and they found his blood on one of the victims, as he _did_ suffer some minor injury in the explosion.”

“Does this mean me brother was alive all this time?” Morag asks slowly. “And nobody cared tellin’ us?”

“They didn’t know about it themselves,” Ianto explains, relieved that he can say something that’s completely true, for a change. “He was in captivity, up till two months ago. Seems that the… the enemy needed a doctor, and they simply took him. A team of the outpost found him in a secret prison by accident. They were quite shocked, I’m told.”

“You wasn’t there?” Morag asks. Ianto shakes his head.

“No, I’ve been assigned there quite recently.”

“Then how can ya know it’s truly him?” she demands.

Ianto smiles. “I wasn’t there _then_. I am, however, the one who’s brought Doctor Beckett home.”

“Home?” Mrs Beckett repeats, gradually getting over the worse of her first shock. “Me son… he’s _home_?”

Ianto nods. “Certainly, Mrs Beckett. He’s currently lying in a private room of _Glasgow Royal Hospital_ and is on the mend.”

Morag blanches at that particular piece of information.

“Have they… Did those people hurt him?” she asks.

“Oh, no!” Ianto hurriedly reassures her. It isn’t even a lie. Beckett wasn’t tortured; not in the traditional sense of the word. “They just didn’t feed him too well; and some of the food he got didn’t agree with him.” Which is as close to the ugly truth as he dares to get. “He’ll need treatment for a while, but the doctors say he’s gonna be as good as new in a few weeks.”

Mrs Beckett accepts that with a tense nod. She isn’t breaking down in tears, affirming Ianto’s former assessment of her strength. Nor does she ask any questions. The _how_ s and _why_ s have no importance for her. Like all mothers, she focuses on the simple fact that her child, whom she’s thought lost forever, has been miraculously returned to her.

“I wannae see me son,” she declares simply yet forcefully. Ianto has anticipated the request and nods in agreement.

“Certainly. I’ve borrowed Sir Archibald’s car; we can leave any moment you choose.”

Mrs Beckett looks around her kitchen. “I need to put on somethin’ more proper,” she decides. “I cannae go there lookin’ like some kind of tramp. Morag, me lass, pack some scones fer yer brother. He’ll need real food, not that… that _gruel_ they feed them patients in the hospital. Mr Jones, do have some tea till I’m ready. I’d be but a moment.”

She’s quick indeed, though Morag does find the time to feed Ianto tea and numerous scones (they’re tastier than anything he’s eaten for a long time), while packing the rest for her brother in a cardboard box, worrying that they won’t be allowed to give them to Carson. Hospitals have such silly rules sometimes.

Ianto promises to intervene, if necessary. He knows that Dr. Beckett isn’t restricted in his diet in any way, as the problems with his health lie elsewhere. He just can’t tell it the two excited and worried women.

And so they pack everything into Archie’s convertible and off they are to _Glasgow Royal_. By the time they arrive, Carson has already gotten his first treatment and looks reasonably well. Seeing his mother he loses it completely, though, and the three Becketts fall into each other’s arms, neither of them ashamed of the tears flowing down their faces freely.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Later in the afternoon, Carson’s older siblings arrive too, one by one, some of them alone, some with their families. It’s a large and close-knit clan, and they all seem very proud and fiercely protective of their baby brother. Carson may be over forty (well, the _original_ Carson would be by now), but for them he still is the second-youngest, their baby whom they have regained against all hope.

And neither of them seems to notice anything odd about him. Neither of them suspects that they are dealing with a copy. That Wraith nicknamed Michael apparently did a good job; and after a few moments with every new arrival, Carson visibly relaxes. There are even moments when that haunted look vanishes from his eyes.

Before the evening check, they’re all thrown out by Carson’s doctors, and Ianto ferries Mrs Beckett back home. Morag takes her leave to return to her own family, and Mrs Beckett all but drags Ianto back into the house.

“If ya comin’ from Wales, where are ya staying while in Glasgow?” she asks. Ianto shrugs. He hasn’t made any thoughts about that yet.

“I assume I can get a guest room at Torchwood Two,” he says. “I don’t know anyone else here.”

“Nonsense, lad,” the old lady declares sternly. “Ya brought me son back to us. Ya’ll always have a place here, with us. Ya can have Carson’s old room; he won’t be needin’ it while he’s in hospital.”

“I don’t want to cause you any trouble, Mrs Beckett,” Ianto protests, although the offer is tempting. Especially if she bakes scones like those more often.

“Ya do not,” Mrs Beckett waves him off. “I’m glad not to be alone here – this house used to be so full of life once – and ya look like someone who could do with a wee bit o’ pamperin’. Do an old lady a favour, lad, and stay here.”

Putting it that way, Ianto can’t really refuse – not that he’d want to. He hasn’t had a _home_ for a very long time… and it would only be for a couple of weeks, anyway. Until he boards the _Daedalus_ again to return to Atlantis.


	16. Reverse Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Augustus Oduya was a colonel in CoE. But since I don’t acknowledge CoE as part of Torchwood, and since this is an AU in any case, I decided to promote the man, mostly because I needed him to outrank Colonel Mace.
> 
> This chapter deals with a problem that annoyed me very much while watching Season 5 of SGA: the fact that Atlantis was half-eaten by a growing Wraith ship, and yet it seemed as good as new in the next episode. That’s just… not believable.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 14 – REVERSE GAMES**

On his trip between Cardiff and Glasgow, Captain Jack Harkness is trying to analyze his own reaction to Ianto’s long absence and unexpected return. He’s not a jealous or overly possessive man by his very nature. It would be hard to be one when everybody you care for dies on you eventually, while you are cursed to go on infinitely yourself. Jack has learned long ago to let people go – or so he believed, until the recent reappearance of his brother. But Ianto has got under his skin like nobody else for quite a while, and the thought of losing him, too, if not due to some tragedy than to someone else, is just too hard to bear.

After a long time, Ianto has made him care again, and Jack knows what the turning point had been. It was Ianto’s bitterly accusing question while Cyber-Lisa was demolishing the Hub: _When did you ask me anything about my life?_ A question that contrasted sharply with his own callous reply to the young man when Ianto was still trying to get into Torchwood Three: _You’re not my responsibility._

How often has that throwaway statement been thrown back into his face?

He can’t tell, not even himself, how Ianto has managed to get behind his walls of self-defence. When has the young man become more than just one of the team who needed to be protected by default. When did the affair that started as comfort sex after the incident with the cannibals in the Brecon Beacons grow into something that helped him through the next day.

Something that became as necessary as breathing.

He hadn’t even realized _how_ necessary until Ianto left him, no longer wanting to compete with Gwen for his affections. Jack would like to shake Ianto, to tell him that he was wrong, that Ianto is the only one for him and will always be – but he cannot. Because even if Ianto returns to him, he’ll eventually grow old and die as every human being does; all but one Jack Harkness, cursed to eternal life. And no matter how long Jack might mourn, eventually Ianto _will_ fade to memory. It may take a lot of time, and he may become a fond memory, but still just a memory.

So yes, Jack knows that it was the right thing to do for Ianto to leave him. Ianto is young and deserves a better life than being buried in the Hub alive, leading a shadowy existence between Weevils, frozen colleagues and a dead pterodactyl. And yet, now that he’s back, even if only temporarily, Jack can’t help but fly half across the country to see him again.

Now, who of the two of them has fallen harder than it’s good for him?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The plane lands at Glasgow Airport in the early evening. Jack’s first action is to give Archie a call. Partly because he wants to tell his fellow Torchwood leader about Professor Taylor’s promise, and partly because he needs and update about the condition and whereabouts of a certain Dr. Beckett. After he promises _not_ to disturb the man in any way – he only wants to _see_ him, after all, to see if he’s any possible competition – Archie tells him how to find Beckett’s room within the hospital and what to say to get actual access.

Jack takes a cab, and half an hour later he’s standing behind the large observation window in the VIP-wing of _Glasgow Royal_ , watching the patient in the private room.

Under different circumstances, he’d like what he sees. More so as Beckett is being checked by his doctor, and so Jack can see considerably more of him than he’d be able by simply running into the man somewhere. A handsome man, this Dr. Beckett, though a bit stockily built. His shoulders aren’t quite as broad as Jack’s own, but he’s more solid and compact, and Jack can see the definition of hard muscles under the skin of his broad, relatively smooth chest and sinewy arms. This is a body of someone who isn’t only used to physical labour but probably did a bit of wrestling, too, in his youth, if the somewhat sloped, heavy shoulders are any indication. Not quite as athletic as Jack prefers his men, but a handsome one nevertheless.

As if he could feel he’s being watched, Dr. Beckett looks up to the observation window with the best pair of blue eyes that Jack’s seen since Ianto’s departure… and it’s like a punch in the guts. Those eyes are no longer as guileless as they used to be on the picture Lloyd has dug up of the man. They’re haunted, with dark shadows beneath; the eyes of a man who’s seen too much and had done things he’s deeply ashamed of. The eyes of a survivor… no matter what survival might have cost him.

And suddenly Jack’s very afraid, because he feels that if anyone could take Ianto from him, it would be someone like Carson Beckett.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Carson has been feeling the inquisitive eyes on him during the whole medical check. At first it annoyed him, because how could someone be so rude? But his mild anger gradually gives way to curiosity, and he finally locates the observer. He must admit that it’s a sight for sore eyes.

He could tell that the man isn’t one of the doctors even if he’d wear a white lab coat – which he does _not_. Instead, he’s wearing a blue shirt, suspenders on his pants and a long, blue coat of heavy wool, the sort that hasn’t been part of any military uniform since World War II. Carson’s only seen these on old photos of his grandfather. Most people would look ridiculous in such an outdated piece of clothing, but _this_ man has the height and breadth – not to mention the shoulders – to carry it off. In fact, he generally has a little of those Hollywood-type military heroes in him – the theatrical ones that usually only exist on film.

He has a square jaw and a dimple in his chin, and a little of the boyish good looks of Tom Cruise, although Carson has the impression that he’s older, _much_ older than the American actor. Those very bright, very blue eyes under the arched eyebrows that would make any Vulcan blanch with envy have clearly seen much, little of which could have been pleasant.

Carson glances at the nurse who’s busying herself with righting his bed. “Wouldae ya know that man up behind the window, love?” he asks.

The nurse shrugs. “Not personally. He’s some associate o’ Sir Archibald… he’s vouched for him and phoned the duty doctor to let him in.”

That still doesn’t explain the man’s interest in him, Carson finds, but the nurse clearly can’t help him any further. He decides to ask Archie when he comes to visit and is about to try to sleep a little – the treatment isn’t always pleasant, with side effects he goes great lengths to hide from his family… the _original_ Carson’s family, he corrects himself mentally – when he sees an already familiar figure appear behind the observation window.

It’s Ianto Jones, and he doesn’t seem too happy to see the man with the military coat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 _Not too happy_ is not the expression Ianto would choose to describe his feelings upon finding Jack here, looking down at Carson Beckett’s sickbed.

“Curiosity getting the upper hand, sir?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I thought everyone would be needed back in Cardiff, now that you’re so undermanned.”

“Actually, the Hub is better manned than it has ever been since I took over Torchwood Three,” Jack replies. “I’ve hired several new people… and a couple of old friends. You’d like them, I think.”

“That would assume that I planned to return to Torchwood, sir,” Ianto counters a little sharply. Jack seems so bloody sure that he’d crawl back to him on all fours after his rotation in Atlantis. Even if Ianto _intended_ to return, that attitude would annoy the hell out of him. Considering that he _doesn’t_ – even though he isn’t planning to reveal that fact just yet – Jack’s expectations are even more irritating.

“I hope you’ll do, eventually,” Jack says, a little taken aback by the snappish reaction. This is not the Ianto he knows. The Ianto he knows – the one he _used_ to know – always gave in to him, sooner or later.

Unable to think of anything better, he reaches out and frames Ianto’s face with those big hands of his.

“You _will_ come back, won’t you?” he asks almost pleadingly.

But Ianto doesn’t lean into his touch as he used to, and the look he gives Jack could only be described as glacial.

“I thought we’ve agreed on a period of separation, sir,” he replies stiffly, “the ultimate goal of which was to give me time to make up my mind. _This_ … this isn’t helping.”

“What is with the thing calling me sir again?” Jack asks, very obviously frustrated. “I thought we’re beyond _that_ phase already; used to be for quite some time.”

“It’s part of the separation process,” Ianto tells him frankly. “I told you I needed distance… all sorts of distance I could get, to learn to be myself again. To figure out who I actually am, as a person of my own, not just some extension of yours.”

“It didn’t stop you from seeking my help, though,” Jack knows he’s petty, but he can’t help. Ianto’s flat-out rejection hurts more than he’s expected.

“Oh, believe me, that was the last thing I wanted,” Ianto answers with brutal honesty. “But the commanding officer of the British UNIT branch is being a total arse, and both Archie and Commodore Sullivan thought that you’d be my best chance to get me through to General Oduya. Colonel Mace proved to be quite the obstacle so far.”

“I can try,” Jack says. “In fact, I’ve already tried… and made some headway. But I do have a condition. No, not _that_ ,” he adds hurriedly seeing Ianto’s eyes turn to ice again. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Jack, I can’t!” for a moment, Ianto’s almost his old self again. “The people I’m working for now take _confidential_ very seriously.”

“ _And_ they obviously need my help,” Jack points out logically. “So, if I’m supposed to do them a favour, the least I can expect is to be told why I am supposed to do so.”

Ianto thinks about that for a moment. It would be hard to counter Jack’s arguments; and besides, if Archie knows about the Stargate programme, it’s illogical that Jack, the _de facto_ leader of their organization, should be left in the dark. Unfortunately, it’s not his decision to make.

“I’ll tell you as much as I dare without authorization,” he finally says. “As you’ve already guessed, I’m stationed on a different planet. The outpost has recently suffered repeated attacks from a technically highly advanced alien race that uses humans as a food source.”

“Sounds unpleasant,” Jack admits, not that it would be something new for him. Ianto nods.

“Believe me, it is. Well, the outpost itself has been build by a long-extinct race called the Ancients; at least that’s what the Americans call them. You can look them up in the archives of Torchwood House; they’re mentioned there as the Guardians. In any case, big parts of the outpost have been destroyed or suffered heavy damage. Area 51 has the know-how to produce replacement parts for us, so that we can repair the city, but not even their budget is big enough to bear all the costs. So we’re begging at the door of all our allies, cos if that outpost falls, the Wraith will find the way to Earth, and then… then we’ll all become nothing but sheep, waiting to be slaughtered.”

Jack shivers. He can see that Ianto considers that danger very real.

“Who are those Wraith?” he asks. “They’re the bad guys that attacked your outpost, right?”

“The Wraith are a vampiric species,” Ianto replies grimly. “They feed on the life energy of humans… and only humans. They have an organ in their palm that can directly siphon off life energy from their prey. They slam their hand into your chest and make you a desiccated, aged corpse within minutes… well, not you, most likely, but every other human being.”

“Sounds unpleasant,” Jack says again, in an epic moment of understatement. Ianto nods.

“I’ve seen one of the rare survivors: a twenty-six-year-old native that looked like a Methuselah of a hundred and twenty. And what’s worse, due to their feeding habits the Wraith practically don’t age. They don’t die from natural cases, either, and are bloody hard to kill.”

“Sounds like me,” Jack tries a lame joke. “Perhaps I could off them, the same way I killed Abbadon.”

But Ianto shakes his head. “The Wraith aren’t some mythical demons that feed off death. They feed off _life_ … can you imagine what they’d do with _you_? You’d be the ultimate, self-regenerating food source for them. They’d keep you caged like a milch cow, until one of them gets hungry. You’d die a thousand deaths, and it would _never_ end.”

Jack feels his whole body grow numb from the mere idea. As much as he sees his immortality a burden sometimes, he still _loves_ life… well, mostly. A fate like that which Ianto has just described would be a never-ending nightmare.

“And you’re at war with _those_ creatures?” he asks.

Ianto shakes his head. “They aren’t at war with us. They’re culling their livestock. As someone once said, for them, we’re just cattle; food that talks back. Quite loudly, in our case, but our resources are limited.”

“How many of them are there?” Jack asks.

“Too many,” Ianto replies with a sigh. “As a rule, part of their population hibernates, because there simply aren’t enough humans to feed them in their area of space… but they’ve been waken up a few years ago by accident. I must try to make the UNIT brass understand what they’d be able to do on such a densely populated planet as Earth.”

“Is this a subtle hint that I’ve got more to lose than everyone else on this planet?” Jack asks mildly. “That it would be in my best personal interest to help stopping these guys?”

Ianto gives him a reproachful look.

“I’d never manipulate you like that again; you ought to know that by now,” he replies. “But yes, I reckon you _do_ have more to lose than anyone else. If the Wraith learned of your existence, they’d fight bloody duels with each other over you; you’d be like the fountain of youth for them. So I guess it _is_ in your best interest that we get all the help we need to keep them away from Earth – unless you can speed-dial that Doctor of yours to whisk you away just in time.”

“He’s not _my_ Doctor,” Jack corrects automatically.

“Yeah, but you wish he were,” Ianto returns with a mirthless grin. “You always have… haven’t you?”

Jack shifts his weight uncomfortably. His complex emotional bond to the Doctor is the last thing he wants to discuss with Ianto right now.

“It’s… complicated,” he says lamely.

Ianto shrugs. “Not really. You’ve loved him through two different regenerations, but he only ever had eyes for that Rose person. Am I the only one who recognizes a familiar pattern here?”

Jack understands, of course, that Ianto is hinting at his interest in Gwen, but he’s a bit shocked by the parallels Ianto has drawn.

“Well, that’s different,” he says. “The Doctor is… _was_ …”

“… absolutely clueless and never available,” Ianto finishes for him. “Yeah, I know. He also left you dying and was less than pleased when he realized you don’t do _that_ anymore. Martha told me all about it. Didn’t stop you pining after him, did it?”

Jack laughs, but it sounds forced, even in his own ears. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m not; I’m being realistic,” Ianto answers quietly. “Competing with Gwen was bad enough; watching her throw herself at you all the time, enduring her condescending little remarks… but how am I supposed to compete with a Time Lord? With someone who’s shown you the wonders of the universe and still has such a tight hold on you that he only has to whistle and you’d run to him like a well-trained puppy?”

“Hey!” Jack protests indignantly. “That only happened that one time! And I came back, didn’t I? I came back for _you_!”

“Are you really sure about that?” Ianto asks, not the least convinced. “And even if it’s true, what’s the guarantee that you won’t just run off with him without warning again?”

“Ianto,” Jack interrupts, “don’t! Not now, please,” he reaches out and takes Ianto’s face into his hands again. “I missed you,” he says, before kissing him, slowly and thoroughly.

For a moment, Ianto allows himself the luxury of getting lost in the long-missed sensations; he’s missed Jack, too. Missed his touch, his unique scent – damn those fifty-first-century pheromones anyway! – the solid weight of his body against his own… But then he remembers this isn’t the road he wants to walk right now, and gently but firmly frees himself from Jack’s hold.

“No, Jack,” he says. “This is not the time… we’ve made a deal, remember?”

“When if not now?” Jack knows he’s perilously close to begging, but he doesn’t really care. “In a few days you’ll be gone again, and who knows when I’ll see you the next time… if ever, dangerous as the place is you’re working now. You’ll have more than enough time to make up your mind yet. But now you’re here, and I’ve missed you so much…”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Ianto admits, because that’s the truth, and he knows he won’t be able to resist a _pleading_ Jack, no matter what. “I thought you’d have found some… _distraction_ in my absence, though.”

Jack gives him a surprisingly convincing wounded look. “Oh, please! Granted, I like sex – who doesn’t? – but I’m not _that_ desperate. I’ll live forever, after all; it’s not so as if I’d miss much if I waited for your return.”

“Yes, but we agreed that both of us would be free to seek out new possibilities,” Ianto reminds him gently.

“Have you…?” Jack trails off, suddenly unsure. Ianto shakes his head.

“Nah; I wouldn’t have the _time_ for it anyway. I arrived directly in the middle of a crisis, what with an enormous, organic alien ship growing in the middle of our station and eating it in the process.”

“Then you wouldn’t be cheating on anyone if you stayed with me tonight,” Jack points out eagerly. “Please, Ianto… we might not get such a chance again for a long time!”

Ianto knows he should refuse. He was the one who wanted a clean cut, and he’ll never be able to struggle free from Jack’s hold on him if he keeps giving in. But the sad truth is… he can’t. Despite the new friends he’s made in Atlantis, he was lonely in these recent months, and after the lengthy period of forced celibacy, Jack’s presence is just too much to resist.

“All right,” he says with a self-deprecating sigh. “Just let me call Mrs Becker first, so that she won’t wait for me…”

The rest of the sentence is cut off by Jack’s eager mouth, and he stops thinking entirely. He only _reacts_.

From his sickbed, the man who – for the lack of any other identity – still thinks of himself as Carson Beckett, watches the two men behind the observation window kiss with intimate familiarity. The searing pain of loneliness slices through his guts like a hot knife.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Four days later Ianto still could bang his head against the next available wall for falling under Jack’s spell again. It isn’t so that he didn’t _enjoy_ their renewed activities, but it could cost a man every last ounce of self-discipline to sit calmly opposite a high-ranking military officer (or the Prime Minister herself two days previous, for that matter) without fidgeting, when simple sitting is highly uncomfortable.

He’d never thought that Jack’s missed him _quite_ this much.

Fortunately, Jack also proved as good as his word and has navigated him along various UNIT instances to get him where he wanted to go. First they met Professor Taylor in London; and while Ianto is grateful to have a fellow Welshman supporting his task, he must secretly admit that the scientist’s blatant hero worship where Jack’s Doctor is considered was getting on his nerves. 

Professor Taylor then brought them in contact with a Captain Marion Price: a cold blonde with the rank insignia of the Royal Engineers, who’s served as Colonel Ironpants’s second in command… among other things, if the rumour mill can be trusted. But whatever her true relationship with her commanding officer might be, she’s known to have done an excellent job during the Sontaran crisis… and to handle Colonel Mace better than anyone else.

Using this specific talent of hers, she then got them into the office of Colonel Alan Mace… which is a mixed blessing. Colonel Ironpants has definitely earned his name, but Ianto finds his blatant disregard of the Doctor very refreshing, and the glaring matches between him and Jack are a thing of beauty. But in the end, Ianto manages to persuade the man that supporting him would serve the security of Earth against alien threat – high-ranking UNIT officers are vaguely familiar with the Stargate programme – and Mace arranges for them a meeting with General Oduya.

So here they are now, Jack and himself, sitting opposite the officer in charge of the British division of UNIT, and Ianto secretly admits that he isn’t comfortable with the situation. And no, his discomfort has _nothing_ to do with the fact that sitting is something of a torture for him right now.

He instantly dislikes the man, and that rarely happens to him at first sight. He’s usually someone who watches and analyzes a person for a while before judging them. But there’s something in Augustus Oduya that makes his hackles rise. The man’s so smooth and seemingly unshakable as an ebony Buddha, but his eyes belie his jovial looks. They are cold and calculating and hard like pieces of obsidian, revealing a ruthless, probably even cruel person under the smiling surface.

Ianto knows at once that he’s got the fight of his life before him; and that he won’t be able to count on Jack’s help. General Oduya is not the sort of man who’d be impressed by an ex-companion, and Jack’s position as the _de facto_ head of the whole of Torchwood clearly doesn’t carry any importance for him.

“Well, Mr. Jones,” General Oduya launches the discussion, “I understand that you have important news for me. I assume it’s related to the Stargate programme of the Americans, isn’t it?”

“Obviously, sir,” Ianto replies dryly. “Or else they wouldn’t have sent _me_. The Atlantis expedition has suffered heavy losses, and we need the help of all related organizations to repair the station.”

“I thought the US division of UNIT was responsible for joint missions with the SGC,” the general says with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps you should have contacted Lieutenant General Sanchez instead of me.”

“I have,” Ianto counters, as unperturbed as if he were ordering pizza,” and he promised me all the help he could give us. Unfortunately, the US division is still a fairly small one, with limited resources… and the US Air Force can’t carry this magnitude of financial burden alone. Prime Minister Jones promised me the support of our government, but even so, we still need help. Especially from people who’re no strangers to alien technology.”

“I see,” Oduya says thoughtfully. “How much damage are we speaking of?”

Ianto takes a manila folder out of his briefcase and hands it to the general.

“Here are the hard facts, sir, with detailed information, considering both the damage and the means of help we’d need,” he explains. “It’s all verified by the head scientist and the military commander of the expedition.”

The general breaks the seal on the folder and scans some of the documents quickly. Jack is dying to know what’s all written in there but knows better than to ask. Finally, the general looks up again, his smooth, mahogany-coloured face ash grey with shock.

“Twenty per cent of the station destroyed or otherwise damaged?” he exclaims. “How is it possible in such a short time?”

“Well, _some_ of the damage originates from previous battles… or from the fact that the station is ten thousand years old,” Ianto replies matter-of-factly. “Most of the destruction was caused, however, by a Wraith hive ship growing in the middle of the city, eating it and turning its material into her own.”

Jack shakes his head in amazement. He never expected calm, practical, down-to-Earth Ianto Jones talking about such things as if he’d be talking about the latest rugby match. And… _Atlantis_? Ten-thousand-year-old space stations? What kind of crazy adventure has the young man been drafted into? Has he been perchance travelling through time?

“You call an alien ship _she_?” he asks, because frankly, that’s the only thing that he’s understood from the entire discussion. “That’s… kinky.”

“Well, considering that the ship was organic and used Dr. Keller as her biological central processor, I thought the female article would be proper,” Ianto answers with a shrug. 

That silences Jack for the time being. He, too, is having eerie Cyberwoman reminiscences.

“What happened to Dr. Keller?” General Oduya is leafing through the mission report, seeking for details. “Have you managed to get her out of that ship?”

Ianto shakes his head regretfully. “No, she was too far gone. Sergeant… I mean, Agent Bates was forced to shoot her, in order to stop the ship’s growing procedure. The… the transformation was nearly complete.”

His voice lacks any emotion. He’s calm, competent, and unshakable. Still, Jack can sense the forcibly suppressed pain behind that smooth exterior and wonders about the cruel twist of fate that has confronted the young man with the same horror – or, at least, with a very similar one – for a second time.

General Oduya, in the meantime, has other concerns.

“Will you be able to do the repairs at all?” he asks. “According to this report, you’ll need industrial amounts of spare parts to make Atlantis ship-shape again. Do you have the necessary technical background for that?”

“Area 51 has the know-how, the technology and the right people to do it,” Ianto replies. “What they need is raw material – and money. The French and Chinese governments, too, have already declared their willingness to participate, in the hope that it will give them more influence regarding the expedition.”

“And? Will it?” Jack asks quietly.

Ianto shrugs again. “Perhaps not officially – after all, the Atlantis Charta describes in minute detail the rights and responsibilities of each I.O.A. member. But in practical matters… yeah, I think so. The fact that they’ve financed a great deal of the repairs _will_ give their word much weight in the future.”

 _And UNIT would be efficiently removed from the proximity of any important decision, unless they’re willing to participate_ , the unspoken message says. General Oduya gets the message, of course. He’s no fool. He might not like being cornered like this, but apparently, this Atlantis expedition is important enough for UNIT to give in.

Which makes Jack even more curious about the whole thing.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the general says, still a little evasively. “Of course, if I had a better link to our science department…”

Jack suppresses a grin. UNIT scientists are a species unto themselves, and are given considerable independence, while nominally under military control. The Brigadier could handle them well enough, and they either loved him, or at the very least, respected him enough to follow his orders without arguing. Apparently, General Oduya is still learning the tricks. Perhaps a little cooperation could prove helpful, Jack thinks.

“I can give the Brigadier a call,” he offers. “He might persuade the geeks to be more… cooperative.”

Because the Brigadier likes him and wouldn’t refuse any reasonable request coming from an ex-companion, and they both know that.

General Oduya seems moderately offended by the offer – he’s clearly one of those hard-arsed soldiers who take offence if someone has more influence than they do – but accepts graciously enough. The rumours that he and the Brigadier have a somewhat… troubled relationship seems to be true, and Jack has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s just made himself an enemy.

Ah, well; it’s not so as if he wouldn’t outlive the general, no matter what. And fortunately, he’s just re-shaped Torchwood Three into a more efficient team, consisting of competent, experienced people who can deal with a lot on their own… well, most of them anyway. Which is a very good thing indeed, as he suspects that as long as General Oduya is in command, they won’t be able to get much help from UNIT, in case of a major emergency.

Thinking of it, perhaps Archie ought to build up a proper team, too, just in case.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The rest of the interview is then over fairly quickly. They’ve discussed all that’s there to discuss, and neither side has the wish to waste more time on each other than absolutely necessary. But when they leave the UNIT headquarters, Ianto has the written declaration of the UK-division to help with the rebuilding of the Atlantis station… city… whatever.

How he’s managed to get it is still a mystery for Jack.

“The trick is to make people believe they want to do what you want them to do for you,” Ianto explains, climbing into the passenger seat of Jack’s rental car. “This wasn’t even one of my best performances. You proved to be quite the distraction.”

“I’m flattered… I think,” Jack replies, starting the engine. He tries not to remember how Ianto managed to make _him_ believe that he needed a butler… or a receptionist. Except that they really _did_ need someone like Ianto, or else they’d all have drowned in chaos. The fact that he still hasn’t found all the persons necessary to do the job Ianto did single-handedly back at Torchwood Three only proves the truth of that statement.

So Jack decides _not_ to address that particular topics, and asks instead, “What’s next on your plate?”

“Nothing exciting,” Ianto leans back and closes his eyes tiredly. “Back to Glasgow, I think, to check on Carson and say my good-byes to Mrs. Beckett. A good night’s sleep, and then the first plane back to the States. Delivering my report, and… well, I guess I can finally return to the expedition.”

He gives no details and Jack knows better than ask by now. So they drive back to the city in silence, where they have lunch with Professor Taylor, who’s eager to learn what they’ve managed to achieve with General Oduya. It’s a funny and animated encounter – at least it is for Jack. Ianto’s getting more and more annoyed as Professor Taylor keeps talking about the Doctor, singing the Time Lord’s praise in dulcet tones. The Doctor is still a… sensitive issue between Jack and Ianto, and as the other two are discussing past adventures, such as they witnessed and such as they did not, Ianto feels more and more cut off the whole conversation.

He’s relieved when the professor finally leaves – and suddenly, he can’t get back to Glasgow soon enough. Being a man of quick decisions, he connects his palmtop to the internet and books a last-minute ticket for the next available plane. He feels won’t be able to sit in a train with Jack for hours… not now.

Jack is clearly hurt by his spontaneous decision. Especially as there aren’t any more free places on that plane, so he doesn’t have an excuse to go to Glasgow first and then continue to Cardiff from there.

“You can’t wait to get away from me again, can you?” he accuses. Ianto shrugs.

“I think this is the most sensible thing to do, sir,” he replies, putting a certain distance between them already by addressing Jack that way. “Getting… up close and personal again, after so short a time was a mistake.”

“You seemed to enjoy it, though,” Jack returns, offended. It’s a somewhat childish reaction, but it’s so much _him_ that Ianto can’t suppress a smile.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t _pleasurable_ ,” he replies. “I said it was a mistake. I should have kept my distance… but I was too weak. You and those bloody fifty-first century pheromones of yours are pretty much irresistible.”

At that, Jack flashes that thousand megawatt, self-confident grin of his at him, but Ianto sighs and shakes his head.

“It was still a mistake, though… one that I don’t want to repeat so soon,” he emphasizes. “We’ll see us again when I’m back on Earth… in a year or so… and then we’ll see what happens. Until then, all bets are open.”

“Am I ever gonna learn what this is all about?” Jack asks, accepting the inevitable with as much grace as he can master.

“I’ve told you: it’s not my decision,” Ianto replies. “Ask Archie, he might be able to get you the necessary clearance. If he does, I’ll tell you everything when I come back. Now, can you drive me to Heathrow or shall I call a cab?”

“Don’t be a moron; of course I’ll drive you,” Jack replies in clear annoyance.

And so he does indeed, waiting for Ianto’s plane to take off, before booking himself a flight back to Cardiff. Their short reunion is over, and he isn’t sure he’ll see Ianto Jones ever again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto, for his part, is greatly relieved to be back in Glasgow. He takes a cab from the airport to _Glasgow Royal_ , where he finds Carson in a reasonably good shape… and in a less brooding mood. Which, in his opinion, is a good thing.

“The treatment seems to work just fine,” Carson tells him with cautious hope in his voice. “And it isnae makin’ me feel sick all the time, not anymore. I reckon I’m getting’ used to it.”

“How long will you need the treatment?” Ianto asks.

“This Commodore Sullivan tells me probably two months,” Carson replies. “Less, if me system keeps reactin’ as well as it’s done so far. He said I might go home as soon as in five or six weeks, as long as I’m comin’ back for regular checking, and get ambulant treatment, which’s only gonna take an hour or so, each time. In any case, I should be stabilized in two months, tops.”

“And what then?” Ianto asks. “What are you planning for afterwards? Are you staying here, with your family?”

Carson shakes his head thoughtfully. “No, son. I wannae go back to the Pegasus. As much as I love me family, we both know they aren’t really _me_ family… and knowin’ that, knowin’ that I’m lyin’ to them with me very existence... it bloody hurts.”

He fells silent. Ianto doesn’t press. He understands that this identity crisis can’t be easy for Carson to master.

“Besides,” Carson continues after a while, “people in the Pegasus galaxy have suffered greatly because of us… because of _me_. The Hoffan virus, the iratus bug retrovirus… those were all created by me… by the former me. They’ve all done great harm. Now, I may not be the same Carson Beckett who took a Hippocratic Oath, but I do feel responsible for his actions… or for _me_ actions, while I was forced to work for Michael. I’d wish to make amends, to help those people. Can ya help me to get back?”

“I’m not sure,” Ianto admits, “but I’ll try. You should ask Commodore Sullivan, too, though. He seems to have some significant influence with the I.O.A. and the Stargate programme. And he seems a decent enough bloke for a high-ranking Navy officer.”

 _Or for an ex-companion_ , he adds in thought. There’s no use to tell Carson about _that_ right now. Or at any time in the future, that is.

Carson nods. “Aye, that he is. What of ya, though? Are ya goin’ back any time soon?”

“I’ve booked a flight for the day after tomorrow,” Ianto tells him. “I don’t know how long it will take to clear everything with the SGC, but I reckon I can go back to Atlantis within a week or so.”

“Ya aren’t waitin’ for the _Daedalus_ , then?” Carson asks.

Ianto shakes his head. “No, I’ll return via Stargate. Apparently, caffeine deprivation has reached a level that’s made a mutiny imminent in the science labs. Mr. Woolsey needs me to calm down the rebelling masses as soon as humanly possible. Or so his last report stated.”

They both laugh, Carson a bit wishfully, as he still remembers the Atlantis crowd as his close friends. Even though, technically, those aren’t _his_ memories.

“What about the man in that military coat, though?” he then asks. “Is he willin’ to let ya go again?”

“You’ve seen us?” Ianto is surprised. He wasn’t aware of Carson being conscious when Jack caught up with him. Carson nods, and Ianto shrugs. “No, he isn’t happy about it, but it isn’t his decision. It’s mine. And I know it’s better for me to go for a while.”

“You seemed… close, though,” Carson says carefully. He doesn’t want to spy, but he has the feeling that it would do the younger man good to speak about it… whatever it is.

“We had a... a thing running for almost two years,” Ianto admits. 

For some reason, he feels he can trust the doctor, even though they barely know each other. Perhaps it’s Carson’s bedside manner, which is magnitudes better than Owen could have ever hoped to acquire, or perhaps it’s the fact that Carson, too, has the burden of secrets to carry, but he is a man who invokes trust in others immediately.

“It wasn’t without problems,” Ianto continues, almost against his better judgement; after the recent days, talking does help a little indeed. “It’s… complicated, and the reason why I accepted the job in Atlantis to begin with – well, _part_ of the reason – was to put some distance between us. We got together shortly after my girlfriend died, and I’ve lately come to think that it wasn’t entirely good for me.”

“Distance didnae seem to have worked from where I was watchin’ ya,” Carson says gently, remembering the passionate kiss he watched through the observation window. It made him ache for the touch of another human being for the rest of the night.

“No,” Ianto admits, “which is why I need to leave again. There wasn’t enough time to try getting him out of my system… or to decide whether I want to do so in the first place.”

“ _Time_ may not be enough for that,” Carson says. “The body has a mind of its own. You might wanna seek out physical distraction.”

“You mean sleep with other people?” Ianto asks with a frown. Carson sighs.

“In the first year in Atlantis, I fell in love with a lovely Hoffan scientist lady I worked with on that bloody Wraith-repelling virus,” he says, than corrects himself with a rueful smile. “Well, the _original_ Carson did. She was one of the first casualties, and I… _Carson_ was heartbroken, he really was. Then Anika, a Hoffan healer asked me to marry her, and I did, even though we were not in love. She wanted a family, and me… I wanted to forget… well, _Carson_ did. It worked out just fine… until that bloody Michael abducted the whole Athosian village to use them for his experiments.”

“What happened to Anika?” Ianto asks quietly, because the pain in the doctor’s blue eyes speaks of another tragedy.

“Michael killed her in cold blood, before me very eyes, to force me to cooperate,” Carson whispers. “Funny thing was, I didnae even know back then that she wasnae really _me_ wife… that I was but a copy. We had… _they_ had a little girl named Fiona, after me Mum. She was rescued in the last moment and is still livin’ with the rest of the Athosians on the mainland. Which is the other reason why I oughtta go back. I mean, she isnae really _mine_ , but I do love her, as if I were her real father.”

“In a manner, you are,” Ianto says. “Whatever happened, every test would say that she’s yours… and since you do love her, what does anything else matter?”

“Wouldya look after her for me?” Carson begs. “I know the Athosians will take good care of her, but I wouldnae wish her to forget me… the other me… whatever.”

“I think she knows you better than your previous self by now,” Ianto says. “But I’ll see that he doesn’t forget you, I promise. In fact, why don’t you record a message for her? I have my mobile phone with me, and it can record short messages.”

Carson jumps at the offer, and after several aborted efforts – he’s a very emotional man and starts crying in the middle of the message repeatedly – they manage to record a halfway cheerful greeting for little Fiona. Ianto then takes his leave from the emotionally exhausted doctor and takes a cab to Mrs Beckett’s house.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Clan Beckett takes him in as they would a prodigal son. This time, Katherine and Brianna, Carson’s oldest sisters are present, with their families, and the little house is full of laughter, chatter and the scent of freshly baked scones. Mrs Beckett seems to be permanently making them, and they’re gone within the hour each time. Of course, with such a large family, it isn’t really surprising.

They all behave as if Ianto had always been part of the family, and it makes him ache for something he’s lost a long time ago… or perhaps never had. In any case, their easy acceptance of him for Carson’s sake stirs on his conscience enough to give Rhiannon a call. His sister starts crying upon hearing his voice, and that makes him feel even more guilty, for not having taken at least a day to visit his family.

“I’m back on official business, and only for a very short time,” he tries to explain. “In two days, I must be back to the States again.”

But Rhiannon is too upset to listen to reason.

“You’ve been back for _days_ , and you haven’t even called!” she complains. “You hardly ever talk to me in these days, Ianto. Have I done something wrong?”

“No, of course not!” Ianto protests hurriedly. “I’m really sorry, Rhi. I’m so caught up in this job…”

Then a thought occurs to him. It’s perhaps not the best solution, not now when he’s got so much on his mind, but it might put her into a better mood. And he really has neglected her – has neglected them all – in recent times.

“Listen, why don’t you come over to Glasgow?” he suggests. “I’ll book you a ticket, for the first plane in the morning. You could bring the kids, too.”

“I don’t know, Ianto,” she replies hesitantly. “Flight tickets aren’t exactly cheap, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Ianto says. “I can afford it. It’s not so as if I had the chance to spend any money in the recent months. I’ll have to leave the day after tomorrow, but until then I don’t have any obligations. We can spend a day together, see the sights, have some fun…”

It takes a little persuasion, but in the end Rhiannon gives in, perhaps glad to escape the monotony of her daily life if only for one day. It’s not so that she’d Johnny would be particularly poor, but they both have to work hard to keep a modest standard, and it’s a rare thing for her to have a day off – even with the kids. 

Again, Ianto feels a little guilty for having been so wrapped up in his own problems and in Torchwood that he never gave the life of his sister much thought. There were times, especially when he had to take care of Lisa, when they weren’t even in touch. Sure, he _had_ taken precautions to support the children in the future, putting money in the bank for the time they might need it, but he must ashamedly admit that he’s all but forgotten about Rhiannon’s needs. He’s simply assumed that she and Johnny had everything under control.

And they had, most of the time. They even supported _him_ before joining Torchwood, when he left his studies unfinished and took small, temporary jobs that didn’t quite feed him. What Rhiannon would have needed was a little _moral_ support, and he failed to give her that.

Oh, he certainly has his excuses. _His_ life wasn’t exactly a single, delightful party, either. But the closeness and mutual support of the Beckett clan makes him realize now that despite everything, he could have done more. Or, at the very least, he could have _tried_. If not sooner, then after the crisis with Cyber-Lisa was over.

 _Well, there’s no use to cry over spilled milk_ , he thinks ruefully. He might have failed Rhiannon in the past, and that’s nothing he can change now. But there is, hopefully, still a future to make amends, as Carson would say. And spending his day off with his family can be a first step in the right direction. Or so he hopes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When Mrs Beckett learns about the upcoming visit of Rhiannon and the kids, she insists that they all have dinner with her, of course. So, when they’re done with sightseeing, they come back to her house and are treated with the best home-made meal Ianto’s had for a long time.

Rhiannon and the kids are duly impressed, too. Rhi’s a good enough cook of her own, but Mrs Beckett has the experience of _decades_ , plus the instincts of a mother hen to see her chicks properly fed. Morag has come to help her again, and Carson’s youngest brother, Randall, is there, too, with his family, so that there’s quite the crowd sitting around the long dinner table.

There are even kids, five of them altogether, not much older than Rhiannon’s own ones, so that they keep each other entertained, leaving the grown-ups to their conversation. Rhiannon hits off with both Morag and Randall’s wife, Beth, at once, and before the day ends, addresses and phone numbers are exchanged and future visits are talked about. All of a sudden, the small Jones-Davies family, after having struggled along on its own for years, is firmly bound into the Beckett clan.

The Becketts are simple people, like the Joneses, who have to work hard for a modest living. But they have love and moral support to offer aplenty, and since Ianto has brought back their baby brother, whom they’d thought dead for the last two years, now they consider him as one of their own. For the first time since their father’s death, Ianto doesn’t feel alone in the world.

 _This is what life’s supposed to be_ , he thinks while driving Rhiannon and the kids back to the airport. _Not Weevils and weird alien artefacts and pterodactyls and the living dead_.

Granted, he’s about to return to a foreign galaxy, to face even more alien weirdness. But now he’ll have an extensive family network to rely on – the Becketts have all but adopted them all. And having suddenly achieved a mother and six older siblings – even if only semi-adopted ones – makes him feel unexpectedly safe… for himself and for Rhiannon, too, who won’t be left alone, should anything happen to him.

It makes him feel safe enough to return to Atlantis and face whatever the Pegasus galaxy might throw at him.


	17. Return to Pegasus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is some sort of a filling chapter, before the next great adventure starts. And yes, I have messed up SGA timeline just a teeny bit. But this is an AU, even though a few lines around the end of the chapter have been borrowed from “The Daedalus Variations”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were never told how old Jinto was in the pilot episode, and we’ve never seen him – or his friend Wex – beyond Season 1. So I took a little poetic licence in this matter. Selena is an unnamed Athosian girl seen in some of the early Season 1 episodes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 15 – RETURN TO PEGASUS**

Ianto’s return to Atlantis is nothing short a triumphal march. When he walks through the Stargate and steps out at the other end of the wormhole, he finds the entire command staff of Atlantis _plus_ half the science division gathered in the Gate room, as if they’d be waiting for Santa.

And like Santa, he doesn’t arrive with empty hands. He comes with two enormous boxes pushed through the Gate at his heels, stuffed with small (or not so small) presents for the Atlantis people… mostly, but not entirely sent by their families or friends. The scale is broad and varied, and everyone is eager to see what the others have got.

There are cigarettes and chocolate for Dr. Simpson (and yes, Dr. Kavanagh _has_ actually managed to write that letter before Ianto left Earth). There are painting utensils for Major Lorne (courtesy of his old pals from the SGC, with whom he used to serve under Colonel Edwards). There is home-made fudge for Dr. McKay (from his sister, whom Ianto found absolutely charming, which is strange, considering how much alike they are). There is becherovka for Dr. Zelenka (purchased by Ianto himself, commissioned by Carson Beckett). And so on and so on. Such an unscheduled trip through the Stargate is a good opportunity to send all sorts of non-essential items; as many as one person can pack in a short time.

Ianto hands out the small presents, shakes hands with soldiers and scientists, accept hugs from women and children… and has the surprising feeling of coming home. It’s strange, really; he’s one of the newest expedition members, and the only person here whom he’s known before is Martha – and yet, he feels a quiet joy he hasn’t felt since… no, he can’t even remember the last time.

There’s _one_ person he can’t spot, though, no matter how much he’s looking; one for whom he’s got something special. So he turns to Dr. Simpson and asks.

“Where’s Doctor Kusanagi?”

Simpson’s freckled face acquires a particularly grim expression. “She’s hiding. McKay was being his usual charming self today,” she says in a tone that’s dripping with sarcasm, “and Miko… she just snapped. Usually, she can take McKay’s insults almost as well as Radek, but…”

“Everyone has breaking point, Julia,” Dr. Zelenka, having snapped up the tail end of their conversation, says quietly. “Miko’s been here without break from day one… it’s become too much for her, I fear.”

“ _You_ ’ve been here for four years, too, and so has Doctor Simpson,” Ianto points out. There _has_ to be something else, he can feel it.

“True,” Zelenka replies seriously, “but neither of us has crush on Rodney… I think,” he looks at Simpson for reassurance.

“Hell, no!” she replies promptly. “I can’t understand what Miko can _possibly_ see in McKay. He’s brilliant, yes, but he’s socially inept; a complete jerk with no interest whatsoever for anything or anyone but himself and his work.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Zelenka corrects quietly. “He had very personal interest for Doctor Keller.”

“As if it would’ve ever worked between them,” Simpson returns with a derisive snort. “In any case, he was a complete ass today, as usual, and Miko simply couldn’t take it anymore. She ran out of the lab, shut herself into her quarters and refused to come out again, no matter what.”

“I see,” Ianto says thoughtfully. He doesn’t understand what Dr. Kusanagi sees in McKay, either; but again, he never understood what Toshiko saw in Owen, so he knows such things simply can’t be explained. “Do you think she’d be willing to let me in? I’ve brought her a few things from Earth that may cheer her up.”

Simpson and Zelenka exchange hopeful looks. They both like Miko very much and wish they could help her, but she’s always kept them at arm’s length. In fact, the only person she seemed to trust so far was Ianto.

“If anyone can get through to her, it’s you,” Simpson says, and Zelenka nods vigorously.

“All right,” Ianto says, “I’ll give it a try.”

Simpson grins in relief and kisses him on the cheek. “You’re the best, Ianto, you really are. You and your magic coffee.”

“Speaking of which,” Ianto says, already on his way to the transporter chamber, “tell the science staff that I’ll be delivering coffee to the labs as usual, starting tomorrow.”

“And we’ll all worship at your feet, as usual,” Zelenka replies with twinkling eyes.

Both he and Simpson laugh as they look after Ianto with great affection.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Like all remaining members of the original expedition, Miko Kusanagi has been assigned one of the larger, more comfortable quarters discovered after the installation of the ZPMs. Ianto has been here often enough already, and always welcome, whether he came for their weekly Japanese lessons or just dropped by to say hello. He also knows the opening code of the front door (unless Dr. Kusanagi changed it during his absence), but he’d find it rude to simply override her lock, unless there’s an emergency. 

Besides, their friendship is still in the formal phase – blundering in without invitation would mean the summary end of it, and that’s something he doesn’t want to risk. In his short time on Atlantis, he’s grown very fond of Miko Kusanagi. At first, she was someone to fill some of the emptiness the loss of Tosh has left in his heart; but as he’s come to know her better, he started to like Miko for the person she truly is, hidden deep beneath her insecurities.

So he decides to try the usual way first, using the door buzz.

“Miko-san,” he speaks into the doorframe microphone (or rather into its Ancient equivalent) in carefully-phrased Japanese, “this is me, Ianto Jones. I’ve brought you some things from Earth. May I come in?”

There’s a long silence, and he almost believes she won’t answer, after all, when the slide door finally opens and a dishevelled, puffy-faced Miko Kusanagi looks up at him from reddened eyes.

“I have not ordered anything,” she says in a nasal voice that, too, reveals that she’s been crying a lot recently, and gives the large canvas bag in Ianto’s hand a bewildered look.

“I know,” Ianto replies. “These… things used to belong to a former co-worker and good friend of me. She… well, she no longer needs them, and so I thought you’d perhaps like to have at least some of them. The rest we still can give other people.”

The bag contains Tosh’s personal items that didn’t have anything to do with Torchwood. Ianto asked Jack to remove them from storage and send them to the States before his departure, and Jack agreed, knowing that it would have been in Tosh’s sense. Her family didn’t want anything, and they’d only have collected dust in the warehouse. It’s was better to give them to someone who’d value them.

There are mostly Japanese books: novels and scientific research stuff, not related to Torchwood but – since Miko is a computer scientist as well – something she might be interested in. There are also some lacquered wooden figurines, a beautifully crafted fan, several unopened boxes of Japanese tea… even clothing that Tosh had bought before her death and never got the chance to wear them. She was much of the same stature as Miko is, and she had a good fashion sense – Ianto feels that Miko would profit from wearing something else than the rather shapeless science uniforms of Atlantis.

Her reaction, although a bit emotional, isn’t entirely unexpected. She starts crying as soon as she begins to take the individual items out of the bag, and presses them to her chest, one after another.

“It’s been so long since I’ve got anything from home I haven’t ordered myself,” she says between sobs. It’s true; Ianto knows that she hasn’t received anything but work-related mail since the second year of the expedition. It’s all in the records. “Are you sure your friend won’t mind?”

“She’s _dead_ , Miko-san,” Ianto reminds her gently. He hasn’t told her much about Tosh yet, just enough for her to know that Tosh used to be someone special for him. “But yes, I’m quite certain that she’d be glad to know that someone appreciates her things. It would be a shame to let them rot in storage. Tosh was a very… practical-minded person.”

Miko lays the things to the side and touches his hand gently.

“Tell me more about her,” she says quietly, and for the first time since the near-destruction of the Hub, Ianto feels that he can, indeed, talk about Tosh.

He spends the rest of the morning in Miko’s quarters, and when he finally runs out of words (and tears), she takes him in her arms and simply holds him for a long time, without belittling the impact of his loss and grief with platitudes.

Afterwards, they have lunch together in the mess hall, and when Miko returns to her work, she studiously ignores McKay’s acerbic remarks, much to the relief of Julia Simpson. Neither of them realizes just yet that her friendship with Ianto has taken a new and different turn on this day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the next morning, Ianto delivers coffee to the labs, to the Gate room, to Sheppard’s office… effectively, to all the usual places. Of course, when Dr. McKay finds decaf in _his_ thermos, it’s a source of carefully concealed amusement across the whole city. When the indignantly sputtering head scientist storms Ianto’ office, demanding an explanation, Ianto simply tells him that he can go to the mess hall for his daily fix as before… unless he apologizes by Dr. Kusanagi. Properly and _publicly_.

The fact that this conversation takes place – in the form of a one-sided shooting match (Ianto would never sink as low as raising his voice) – in the open door of his office, leads to the result that the entire Gate room personnel is witnessing it. Within ten minutes, the ultimatum is known all over Atlantis, and the bets start running.

McKay refuses, of course, and tries to seize Dr. Zelenka’s thermos instead. But the scruffy little Czech is well capable of defending that which is his and hides the thermos so cleverly that McKay doesn’t find it.

On the next day, McKay tries to get some from the coffee delivered for the other science labs. But his fellow geeks, having expected that particular move, simply drink the entire contents of the thermos in the moment Ianto delivers it. As a result, they’re on caffeine high for the rest of the day, but – given the nature of their work – that proves more an advantage than a problem. Until withdrawal hits in the afternoon, that is.

The crew of the Gate room quickly learns about it, and when McKay tries to seize some of _their_ coffee on the third day, he founds that they’ve taken the same precaution as the science staff. By that time, the betting fever has caught every single individual in Atlantis… well, save the Athosians and Mr. Woolsey, of course.

Colonel Sheppard has mercy with McKay on the fourth day, letting him have _his_ thermos. As an act of retribution, Ianto puts _him_ on decaf on the fifth. On that day, the bets hit the roof. The question isn’t who’ll last longer – everyone who can see McKay’s increasingly desperate fidgeting and Ianto’s friendly but adamant manner can tell _that_. The only question is how long it will take until McKay gives in. Consequently, the money is almost generally on Ianto. 

Sheppard is the only one who puts a few bucks on McKay, more out of loyalty than because he’d really believe that Rodney can out-stubborn Ianto. People quickly learn _not_ to give in to McKay’s begging, attempts of blackmail and temper tantrums… unless they want to be put on decaf as well. Which nobody wants. Ianto’s coffee has already become one of the very few unspoiled delights of life in the Pegasus galaxy, and nobody in their right minds would willingly give it up.

Nobody but Mr. Woolsey and the Athosians, again, who are dedicated tea-drinkers.

“How long are you going to play this game?” Martha asks around the end of the week. She and Ianto are having lunch with Julia Simpson in the mess hall.

Ianto shrugs. “As long as Doctor McKay apologizes to Doctor Kusanagi.”

“That can take a long time,” Simpson warns. Ianto shrugs again.

“I can wait,” he says, digging into the not-quite-potato mash with gusto. People tend to complain about the food in the mess hall, but after having lived on takeout for years at Torchwood, he still values a freshly cooked meal, set before him, ready to eat, a great deal. "I've got all the time in the world."

“But _we_ don’t,” Simpson says darkly. “McKay is driving us crazy.”

“He won’t last much longer,” Ianto replies, knowing all too well how caffeine deprivation works. Even though McKay does get something akin to coffee in the mess hall, after having tasted _Ianto_ ’s coffee, _that_ doesn’t help much.

“Why are you doing this anyway?” Martha asks with mild reproval. “He’s taken Jennifer’s death hard enough… we ought to be a bit more considerate with him.”

“Believe me, I know what loss is,” Ianto answers dryly. “But it doesn’t give him the right to treat Doctor Kusanagi the way he’s treating her.”

“She’s not entirely innocent in the whole thing, though,” Martha says. “I’d have broken McKay’s nose a dozen times, had he tried to treat _me_ like that. And I’m sure Toshiko would have done the same.”

Simpson shakes her head. She’s worked with Miko back at the SGC already and knows her better than anyone else, even though Miko was always too reserved for the two of them to become close friends. She’s glad that Miko seems to have found such a steady supporter in Ianto.

“It’s not that simple,” she explains. “Miko comes from a very strict, very traditional Japanese family. She’s been drilled all her life to obey and respect her superiors – _especially_ male ones. That she's managed to break out and pursue a career of her own cost her all the independence she ever had, I’m afraid.” She looks at Ianto, and her eyes are narrowing. “I think you’re good for her. But If you hurt her in any way, I’ll break _your_ nose… just that it’s clear.”

“I don’t intend to do anything like that,” Ianto replies mildly. “Besides, I think she’s a lot more resilient than you’re giving her credit for. She’s survived Dr. McKay so far, after all. Even though she _does_ have a crush on him.”

“Which brings us back to the original question,” Martha says. “How long are you going to play this game?”

“As long as it takes,” Ianto answers, with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m holding the longer end of the rope here.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And he is, indeed. After a good week of spectacular – not to mention very _vocal_ – suffering, McKay indeed reaches the end of his rope. The scene in which he apologizes to Miko Kusanagi in front of half the science staff of Atlantis is hilarious, but everyone can see that he means it. He’s not a bad guy, in the heart of his hearts, Ianto decides, just socially inept. But, in Ianto’s opinion, that isn’t a reason to let him get away with everything. Not even his undeniable genius is a reason for _that_.

Miko is, if possible, even more embarrassed about the whole thing than McKay himself, and in private she chastises Ianto for his actions.

“Dr. McKay is a great man,” she says accusingly. “He does not deserve to be humiliated like that.”

“Neither do you, Miko,” Ianto replies; they’ve reached simple first-name basis, without any honorary additions, a few days before. “You’re brave and brilliant; do not sell yourself under your true value.”

She blushes like a schoolgirl. “I’m noting special,” she murmurs. Ianto reaches out and touches her cheek lightly.

“Oh yes, you are,” he says. “If only you would believe it, it would be easier for others to see, too.”

She blushes even deeper and leans into his touch for a moment.

“I must go,” she then says. “I’ve got work to do.”

“So have I, I’m afraid,” Ianto sighs and lets her go, knowing that _that_ was the understatement of the decade.

He still has several years’ worth of accumulated paperwork, leave requests and incident reports to process, order and file away. It’s an unpleasant task he hasn’t managed to finish before taking Carson back to Earth, but he can’t delay it any longer.

He needs the whole afternoon to bring some semblance of order into this particular chaos. For some reason, the expedition leaders apparently never had a PA who’d have dealt with their paperwork, and clearly, it was always dealt with by the person least skilled in rolling it off onto someone else. At least since the untimely death of Dr. Grodin, who used to shoulder it in the first year. Which is about as long a time as the paperwork used to be more or less in order.

Ianto finds Grodin’s original system logical and easily adaptable – not surprising, since the man was a computer scientist – and decides to use it as the basis upon which to build his own. He regrets that he never had the chance to actually meet the man – somehow he has the feeling that he would have got along with Peter Grodin splendidly, even though the man had two scientific degrees and he has none, himself.

Which is another aspect of his life he might want to change in the future. If he doesn’t return to Torchwood – which he isn’t planning to do – he’ll need something else to do, after his rotation on Atlantis has run its circle. Something that will give his abilities a proper challenge.

Although whether he’ll be able to lead a normal, mundane life after having worked for Torchwood _and_ for the Atlantis expedition, after all the things he’s seen in his young life already, is highly questionable.

It’s dark in the outside, the two visible ones of the planet’s five moons hanging like silver sickles on the black velvet of the sky when he finally stops working and takes a moment to step out onto the balcony adjoining the control room. The evening is quiet, so quiet he might never get used to it, after having lived in big cities all his life, and the starry glory of the sky is spectacular. 

The stars are strange, of course, the constellations completely foreign, and somewhere beyond all that beauty vampiric Wraith, homicidal Replicators and God knows what other dangers are lurking. And yet, in the heart of his hearts, Ianto feels a peace he’s not known before. Not since Canary Wharf, in any case.

It’s not unlike that short, happy time when he found Lisa and stopped drifting… only on a larger scale. With Lisa, his heart felt home, grounded. Here, in Atlantis, his whole _being_ feels right, at home, even though, on a purely personal level, he’s still lonely and a bit hurting.

It is as if Atlantis would be the place he’s been looking for all his life. Not even Lisa’s death, Jack’s absence – both the physical aspect of it and the rift between them – or the loss of Tosh and Owen can disturb more than the surface of that profound peace. Perhaps it’s selfish of him; perhaps he ought to feel guilty about it – but he can’t. The feeling is just too deep, too overwhelming.

An almost noiseless movement in the background alerts him that he’s no longer alone on the balcony. Turning around, he’s a bit surprised to see a small, dark-haired, softly rounded Athosian woman standing in the doorframe.

It’s Dr. Zelenka’s wife, Marta.

“Mr. Jones,“ she says in that gentle, child-like voice of hers, “you are late. The others are all there and waiting.”

For a moment, Ianto stares at her in honest confusion; then he remembers. He’s been invited to the coming-of-age ceremony of Halling’s son, Jinto (complete with betrothal), who's just turned sixteen today. He even prepared a small gift for the boy, although the Athosians told him it wasn’t necessary.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was carried away with work.”

“You Earth people often are,” Marta replies, just a tad scornfully, and Ianto realizes this must be a sensitive topic between her and Zelenka, who tends to spend whole nights in his lab, like all the other geeks – unless his Athosian family drags him home by force.

‘I’m afraid that’s true,” Ianto admits ruefully. “Give me a moment in my quarters, though, and I’ll be ready to go in no time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Marta grants him his moment, which he uses to put on casual clothes and to fetch Jinto’s present. Then they go to the gathering, which takes place in Teyla’s quarters. They’re big enough to take in the much too decimated group of Athosian survivors, as well as their friends among the expedition members… mostly those who’ve been there from day one.

This is the first time that Ianto actually meets Halling, and he’s a bit shocked seeing the damage captivity has done to the Athosian leader. Compared to the soft-spoken, long-haired gentle giant seen on the archive vids, the man looks like the survivors of the labour camps after World War Two. His skull is shorn bald, his body is practically skeletal, all big bones and taut skin stretched too tightly over them, and his eyes are haunted. However, he’s still radiating the same quiet dignity, and when he looks at his son, those hollow eyes are suddenly filled with light and warmth.

And _that_ ’s the most beautiful metamorphosis Ianto has ever seen.

Jinto has grown into a handsome young lad that has barely anything in common with the round-faced, bright-eyed child seen on the vids. He isn’t as tall as his father and will likely never be – very few people can achieve that – but he looks considerably older than his sixteen years, which is not surprising. He’s survived captivity alongside his father – Ianto supposes that ‘Michael’ kept him alive to enforce Halling’s cooperation – watched his people die horrible deaths or being turned into those hybrid monsters… such things can cut one’s childhood short very efficiently. 

But at least he still has his father, and today is his big day. Today he’ll cease being a child and will be accepted as a man.

He seems to be well-loved by the older expedition members, as practically everyone still alive from the original expedition is there: Sheppard and McKay, Simpson and Miko, Bates and Stackhouse, Zelenka and Dr. Corrigan, their local anthropologist, Dr. Nguyen from the Infirmary, and so on. They’re all holding small, carefully-wrapped presents for the birthday boy. They’ve been doubtlessly told, too, that presents are not expected, but old Earth habits are hard to break.

The Athosians have brought their children to witness the ceremony… there are depressingly few of them. Jamie, Stackhouse’s son is the oldest of those born in Atlantis, almost four by now. Well, technically the boy is the late Sergeant Markham’s son, but recorded as Stackhouse’s in the Atlantis database, as Earth law doesn’t recognize clan marriages. Dr. Zelenka and Marta have two, a boy and a girl, three and two years old, respectively.

Jinto’s best friend, Wex, a big, slightly stocky lad who’s only escaped captivity because he was visiting Atlantis at that time, is seventeen already and thus doesn’t count as a child. Neither does Selena, a girl of his age, to whom he’s engaged already… and to whom Jinto _will_ be engaged in this very night. Athosians need to marry young if they want to stay ahead of the cullings with their numbers.

And then there’s a curly-headed little girl, sweet-faced and golden-haired, with the most beautiful, startlingly blue eyes Ianto has ever seen in a child’s face. Those eyes – and the frown as she furrows her tiny brow – are a dead give-away. Ianto knows at once that he’s looking at Carson’s daughter.

“Hullo Fiona,” he says, squatting down to the child. “My name’s Ianto. I’m a friend of your Tad. He asked me to look after you while I’m here.”

“That will not be necessary,” Anais, Stackhouse’s wife, who has a definite Jeanne d’Arc look about her, protests. “We’ll take good care of her.”

“I don’t question that,” Ianto replies, picking up the laughing child and swinging her high above his head, while Fiona squees in excitement. “But Doctor Beckett won’t be able to return for a while, and he doesn’t want his daughter to forget him.”

“You are good with children,” Teyla says with approval. “Do you have any of your own, back on Earth?”

Ianto shakes his head and tickles the little girl to make her giggle. “No, not yet. But my sister has two, and we are… close.”

“Does Doctor Beckett have any family?” Halling asks.

Ianto understands the man’s dilemma. As the current leader of the remaining Athosians, he must see that every surviving member of their woefully small tribe has the best chances for a safe future. Deeply rooted in the traditions of his people, though, he cannot imagine that a child would be able to develop properly if not embedded in a large family structure.

“Doctor Beckett has an elderly mother and six siblings, five of which are older than him,“ Ianto explains, recalling fond memories of the Beckett clan. “They all have relatively large families. I was told that there can be as many as thirty people on big family reunions… sometimes even more. Lots of children, too.”

That bit of information seems to soothe Halling’s concerns considerably. According to Athosian tradition, they cannot refuse Dr. Beckett’s demand, should he want to be handed over his daughter. He is the only surviving parent of the family… well, sort of. He is the closest thing, Ianto corrects himself, as little Fiona is the daughter of the _original_ Carson Beckett. But – understandably enough – the Athosian leader wants to be sure that the child will have a happy and safe life with her father. The Athosians are a people who care a great deal for their own.

“The Becketts are good people,” Ianto continues quietly. “Simple, hard-working folk who love their children. Doctor Beckett has sent pictures and video messages about the family. I’m authorized to show them the girl… and you, should you want to see them,” he adds, looking from Halling to Teyla, and then to Anais. “He wants Fiona to know their family, in case he gets the chance to take her home.”

The Athosians fell silent for a moment. Then Halling clears his throat. The others turn to him expectantly, as it is clear that he’s come to a decision. There is something to say for a culture that doesn’t need lengthy bureaucratic paper war to regulate basic everyday things. That’s what the witnesses are for, after all.

“We shall not separate Doctor Beckett and his daughter,” Halling declares. “A child belongs with his or her parents, as long as they are still there. Unless… what is Doctor Beckett’s condition like? Does he have a true chance to recover?”

Ianto nods. “It seems so, yeah. He’s made considerable headway already. Commodore Sullivan, who’s monitoring his condition, says it’s only a matter of time now. Of course, there’s always the off chance that he might take a sudden turn to the worse, but” he shrugs, “the doctors say it isn’t very likely. We’ll know more in a couple of months, I reckon.”

“That is good news,” Teyla says in obvious relief. “Doctor Beckett has been sorely missed among our people. It will be good to have him back; no offence intended,” she adds, with an apologetic glance in the direction of Martha Jones.

“None taken,” Martha replies with a shrug and a smile. “Certain doctors are capable of making quite an impression,” she ignores Ianto’s dirty look and turns to Halling. “And you don’t mind that he… well, isn’t exactly the same one whom he used to be?”

Halling shakes his head. “No; why should we? What truly matters is the same: his good heart, his gentle soul, his generous nature – why should we care _how_ he was given back to us? And we know _this_ version of him quite well… remember, _he_ was the one in captivity with us for two years.”

“Besides,” Kanaan, the father of Teyla’s child adds with a sad little smile, “who are _we_ to judge other people? Just a few months ago, many of us used to be hybrid monsters and did unspeakable things to our own… and to others.”

“Well, you weren’t quite yourselves,” Colonel Sheppard comments.

“I know,” Kanaan says with a sigh. “That does not make me feel less guilty, though.

“Guilt is a useless emotion,” Ianto replies with a shrug. “We all have done things we regret; most of us a lot more voluntarily than you have. But if you keep brooding over the mistakes of the past, you’ll fail to work on a better future.”

“Speaking of which,” Sheppard says, “aren’t we supposed to witness an important ceremony here tonight? One with some importance for the future?”

“Indeed, we are,” Halling rises, and all Athosians follow suit. After a moment of hesitation, the Earth people climb to their feet, too. Halling takes his son’s hand and turns, facing the remains of their tribe.

“It is my joyous task tonight to present this gathering a new hunter and warrior,” he announces. Out of consideration for the Atlantis crew, he is speaking in English, not the local version of post-Ancient the Athosians normally speak among themselves. “Here he stands before you: my son Jinto, who has just turned sixteen. Do you accept him as a full member of this gathering and an adult of our people?”

“We do,” the Athosians chorus.

“Will you grant him full rights to speak before this gathering in all matters that concern the welfare of our people?” Halling continues.

“We will,” the Athosians reply as one.

“Are you ready to accept any children given to family, clan and tribe through him as if they were your own?” Halling asks.

“We are,” the gathering answers in unison.

And that’s it, basically. For a culture that knows no written records, the fact that the entire community has witnessed is enough, and congratulations can follow. One by one, the Athosians go to Jinto and touch foreheads with him, speaking words of welcome and encouragement in their own tongue.

The Atlantis crew joins in, shaking hands with the young man and handing him their gifts. Small, practical things mostly, like clothes, tools and weapons – things that a member of a semi-nomadic tribe can use daily. Only Dr. McKay has refused to gift _such things suitable for Neanderthals_ , as he calls them, upon anyone. His gift is a virtual picture frame, containing hundreds of pictures and videos: about Earth, about former expedition members, about worlds of the Pegasus galaxy that they’ve visited.

Jinto seems to like the unusual thing well enough, so Dr. McKay declares that there’s still hope for him becoming a civilized person. Ianto finds that extremely rude, but the Athosians are clearly used to McKay’s antics, because they simply smile – and quite fondly at that – and ignore his comments with obvious practice.

After the congratulations, Selena and Wex step forward and clap Jinto’s hands from both sides. Halling steps up behind them.

“It is a time-honoured custom among our people that when a young man or woman crosses the threshold of adulthood, he or she is accepted into one of the already founded households,” he says. “As Selena and Wex have been friends and protectors of Jinto since early childhood, they have offered to take him into their household, and he chose to accept. Are there any who object this bond?”

There are none. The tribe has become small enough to be on the verge of extinction. They need new families, new children, to build up their numbers again.

“I call you to witness, then, that this bond has been entered out of free will, from the side of all bondmates involved, and is therefore valid and binding,” Halling says.

The Athosians know no divorce. Spouses are bound to each other by more than just mutual physical attraction or emotional fondness. Their bond is cemented by the tribe’s need to survive. The fact that these three used to be childhood friends is just an added bonus in their case.

Another round of congratulations follows, this time expressed to all three young spouses – even though Jinto will have to wait about a year before he’d actually become Selena’s second husband. She is not yet pregnant from Wex, and in order to avoid in-breeding, it must be all times clear who are the biological parents of each and every child. Only when Selena already has a child from Wex – or if she should be unable to conceive from him – will it be Jinto’s turn.

Most Earth people find this practice a little bewildering, but it makes excellent sense, Ianto thinks, rocking the sleeping child Teyla has pushed into his hands so that she could express her best wishes to the new spouses. In a culture without genetic testing and all that complicated machinery twenty-first century Earth seems so fond of, people had to think of a simple yet efficient method. And with the Athosians’ stoic, almost Vulcan-like credo about the good of the community outweighing the good of the individual, it does not really matter if one of the husbands has to wait from time to time.

Unless they organize another female spouse during the time of waiting, that is.

As he rocks Teyla’s sleeping son in his arms, humming softly an old Welsh lullaby, Ianto wonders why Teyla, of all people, has chosen not to build a traditional household. Her… relationship with Kanaan hasn’t been ritualized, at least not to Ianto’s knowledge; and even though said knowledge has yet to reach the extent he used to know everything about the Hub, it’s pretty detailed already… and growing, with each passing day.

Is she afraid that bonding herself might hinder her in going off-world with Colonel Sheppard’s team all the time? Is it bitterness about her people choosing to follow Halling instead her that has made her break with tradition? Or is there some truth about her harbouring secret feelings towards Sheppard? Feelings that the colonel can’t – or won’t – return?

Ianto decides to be observant in this particular matter. Having watched Tosh and Owen for years makes him quite the expert in such things, considering that Tosh – unlike Gwen – was a very discreet person who never displayed her feelings openly.

As if via some weird kind of telepathy, he hears the voice of Colonel Sheppard, the same man he was just thinking about, somewhere behind him.

“What are you talking about?” Sheppard asks in that peculiar, half-amused, half-exasperated tone he only uses with one person in two galaxies.

“I’m telling you, she’s hiding him from me,” McKay replies. The voices are coming closer; the two are probably walking up to the three young Athosians to congratulate.

Sheppard snorts in amusement. “She’s not _hiding_ him!” he says. But McKay is having none of it.

“Oh yeah?” he returns, voice dripping with sarcasm… and, strangely, with agitation. “Every time I go to see him, she tells me that he’s just settled down.”

“Can you blame her?” Sheppard asks with deceptive mildness. “You dropped him.”

This is the moment when Ianto understands that they’re speaking about Teyla and her son. Considering that he witnessed himself the moment Sheppard is referring to, Ianto suppresses a grin and tries very hard to keep humming to the baby, as if he hadn’t heard a word of their argument.

“I did _not_ drop him!” McKay says defensively. “He jumped.”

“ _Jumped_?!” Ianto still has his back to them, but he can virtually see Sheppard’s raised eyebrow.

“Well, he wiggled out of my arms,” McKay back-pedals hurriedly. “Look, I _said_ I was sorry.”

“Yeah, because that would have helped so much, should he break his neck or something,” Sheppard returns sarcastically.

“But he _didn’t_ did he?” McKay snaps. “Besides, how much damage could I possibly have done? He fell, like, maybe two feet. Stuff like that happens all the time. I was dropped like a dozen times when I was a kid.”

Ianto winces in sympathy because _that_ was something McKay should _never_ have said. A player of Sheppard’s format would never fail to counter such a high ball. Never.

“Well, that explains a lot,” the colonel ripostes predictably. Still, it’s a lot milder than, for example, Owen would have answered. Of course, Owen was a master of sarcasm, paralleled by few others.

“Why do you even care?” Sheppard then says, clearly a little bewildered. “You don’t even _like_ kids.”

Which is not quite true, Ianto knows that by now. Granted, McKay isn’t the doting type, but his dislike of children mostly comes from a deep-rooted uncertainty in all things requiring social graces, which he generally lacks.

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

“It’s the principle of the thing!” he tells Sheppard heatedly. “Everyone else gets to hold him – why shouldn’t I?”

That is the moment when they reach Ianto’s position, and McKay given him a wounded look.

“See?” he says to Sheppard. “Even _he_ is allowed to hold him, and he’s come here what? Three months ago? Or four?”

“Well,” Sheppard says languidly, “at least he _can_ hold him. _And_ he can sing. Can _you_ sing?”

“Why, of course I can,” McKay replies indignantly. “There was a time when I trained to become a concert pianist, and…”

“Yeah, but that only says something about the voice of your _piano_ , not about _yours_ ,” Sheppard returns teasingly, and they walk by Ianto, continuing with their friendly bickering, their voices fading into the general background noise as they go.

Ianto keeps singing to the baby and smiles. He has missed the friendly banter since Owen is no longer there – he’s learned, in time, to see beyond the barbed remarks of their acerbic doctor and see the real worry under that sarcastic disguise. 

And now that he’s found something similar among his new co-workers, the feeling of being _home_ becomes even stronger. He has been right to come back here. Of that, he is now fairly certain.

~The End - for now~


End file.
